Knock, Knock
by Night Monkey
Summary: Jehovah's Witnesses are spreading the word of God all over Gotham. What happens when they knock on all the wrong doors? Warning: will probably offend serious theists, as it has in the past.
1. Harley and the Joker

Okay, just a quick little note before we get into this. I have never tried to write pure humor before, so I will not pretend to be George Carlin. I just got this crazy idea for a story last night. I felt compelled to write, and man, it felt good.

Title: Knock, knock

Summary: Jehovah's Witnesses have a habit of showing up everywhere and shoving Jesus in your face. What happens when a pair of them knocks on all the wrong doors? Does any villain in Gotham honestly want a copy of _Watchtower_? Of course not.

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The twelve-year-old sedan bounced through the potholes, its bumper held on by nothing more than the religious stickers that covered it. Its trunk was full of Bibles, and its back seat held numerous cardboard boxes, each packed with various pamphlets and booklets. The driver and passenger both wore black suits, but looked more Amish than businessman.

The two men were Jehovah's Witnesses. They drove though Gotham's poorer neighborhoods, trying to convince people that God was the answer to crime, hatred, graffiti, corrupt politicians, and any other social woe they would think of. Most people saw them as a part of the landscape, just like a burning Dumpster surrounded by homeless people or a flock of pigeons on a rooftop. Occasionally, there would be the Evangelical who ushered them in and reveled in the love of Jesus with them. About as often as that happened, they'd run into a drunk two days from eviction who pointed a fully loaded shotgun at them.

Today had been surprisingly good. Maybe it was because Easter was coming up, and there was nothing like a good reminder about how badly Jesus had suffered to guilt-trip people into accepting a free Bible. They planned to make a few more stops and see if they couldn't lighten the load in the trunk a little more.

The Narrows were the worst part in Gotham. Therefore, they were the best place to seek converts. Everyone from the Pope to Richard Dawkins knew the correlation between poverty, lower education, and religion. People who couldn't show off even a middle-school diploma and who called a cardboard box home were all too eager to embrace whatever missionary showed up at their non-existent doorstep. To be fair, a man dressed in a turban praising human sacrifice and the cult of Kali would probably have as much success as the Witnesses.

All of the buildings in this part of the city were run down. Most had their windows lying in pieces on the sidewalk. One house was strangely untouched. It was as though the gangs that ran the neighborhood knew someone capable of killing them in gruesome yet somehow hilarious ways lived there and avoided it on purpose.

Paul got out of the driver's seat. He opened the trunk and pulled out a Bible. John, the passenger, took a few fliers and pamphlets from the back seat. With subjects ranging from the impending apocalypse to how gays were going to bring society to a fiery end, they figured the residents would be sure to find something encouraging to read.

The Witnesses crossed the street, careful to dodge the likely stolen car that blazed by and nearly reduced them to road pizza. They made their way through the litter-strewn yard and up to the front door.

Paul knocked on the door since John's hands were full of literature. Nobody answered. If not for the lights blazing on the second story, they might have thought no one was home. Since these Jehovah's Witnesses were unusually tenacious, Paul knocked again, harder.

"Harley, there's somebody at the door! Chase 'em off!" a voice from inside the house yelled.

"But Mister J, what if it's the police?"

"What do you have that mallet for?"

"Cockroaches, Mister J! They're bigger than cats, and they're all over everythin'."

John and Paul exchanged looks. Did they really want to try to sell Christianity in a house full of cockroaches and women that ran around with hammers? Of course they did! The insane ones were the most eager. They were easier to indoctrinate than children.

"I don't mean to intrude, but we would just like to pass the love of Jesus to you." John said.

The door cracked open hardly a hair. Whoever was on the other side was impossible to make out.

"You just wanna _what_? Oh, Jeez, Mister J, it's the Bible-thumpers!"

"The _who_? Well, invite them inside."

The female, Harley, opened the door. Paul and John both felt their bottom jaws drop to their belly buttons. The woman standing in the open doorway was dressed like a clown. She wore black and white makeup. A black and red jester's hat sat jauntily on her head. Indeed, a very large mallet was clutched in her hands.

"Right this way, boys. Mister J should be down pretty soon. He's workin' on something real special. It's gonna make the papers."

"Mister J. Mister _Joker_. Oh, shit." Paul muttered.

Harley laughed. "Ain't that a word you're not supposed to say?" She swung the door shut behind her, herding the Jehovah's Witnesses into the living room.

The living room looked as though a circus and an ammunitions factory had mated. The walls were done up in red, yellow and purple, the carpet was bright green, and the sofa was overstuffed. Among the vivid colors, bombs in various states of production were scattered. Something luminous and extremely toxic-looking sat in a beaker on the coffee table. Next to the glowing beaker was a gun large enough to kill a dinosaur. Various other weapons were spread around the room.

"Have a seat. I'd put on the telly, but Mister J shot it when they cut out all the good parts in _Pulp Fiction_. Can't blame him." Harley said. She propped her mallet up against the charred remains of the television.

Paul and John took a seat on the sofa. Harley nestled in between them and threw an arm around both their shoulders. Since both men had signed over their sex-lives to the Church, this much feminine contact was unknown.

Harley propped her feet on the coffee table, coming dangerously close to knocking the beaker and its contents to the floor. John cringed and Paul covered his face, as though an explosion was imminent.

"Don't worry 'bout that stuff, boys. It's just paint." Harley said.

"Why do you need paint that glows?" John asked.

"Why not?" Harley responded. She never really questioned the Joker's motives. If tomorrow he decided it was time to burn their hideout to the ground, she'd only help spill the gasoline.

A door slammed on the second floor. There were hurried footsteps, several curses, and then a loud hissing noise. John slowly became aware of the acrid smell of smoke. He coughed lightly.

The footsteps were now at the stairs. Paul considered leaping up, running for the door, and leaving John to face the Joker and his demented girlfriend. Then he remembered the gun, mallet, and bombs. He wisely sat still.

"Uh, Harl, if I was you I'd stay down here. The new project just burned the curtains. And the desk. And your half of the bed." The Joker said. He was holding a fire-extinguisher. The cuffs of his purple suit had been charred. A thin curl of smoke was rising from his hair.

"Mister J! Are you OK? Do I need to call the fire department?" Harley asked.

The Joker glanced back up the stairs. "Nope, everything's dandy now. On the off chance anyone sees a bright flash, locate your nearest exit and don't look back."

Paul moaned into his hands. John cried, "Oh sweet Jesus, I think I'm coming home."

The two whining Witnesses caught the Joker's attention. He strolled over to the couch. Harley beamed, Paul yowled, and John started to sob.

"These are the guys, Mister J. What should we do with 'em? You wanna send 'em out smiling?" Harley asked.

"These two? Waste of laughing gas, Harl. The Joker Fish were a great idea. The Joker Jehovah's Witnesses? Bleh."

The Joker grabbed the pamphlets from John's trembling hands. "What do we have here? Any good reading material? Anything I should pass onto the Bat next time I see him?"

Seemingly without reason, the Joker burst into a fit of laughter. "Look at this one, Harley!'Finding the Real Meaning of Easter'! Who needs help with that? Everyone knows Easter is about candy. Just like Christmas is about presents."

"Actually, the meaning of Easter is Jesus's death and resurrection." Paul said. He was likely going to be very dead in about six minutes, and he still couldn't turn off the preacher. God had better appreciate this.

The Joker shrugged. "Candy, torture and crucifixion. Candy. Torture and crucifixion. What sounds better?"

"Candy, of course. Especially jellybeans. Mister J likes chocolate bunnies. He bites their little heads off." Harley Quinn said. She then giggled. She found nothing sadistic in dismembering innocent candies.

The Easter pamphlet went flying. A booklet about the sins of tax evasion joined it. In the twenty pieces of literature John had brought, the Joker found nothing else entertaining. He threw it all into a heap on the floor.

"Pathetic! Harley, fetch the mallet!" the Joker said.

In a blink, Harley was holding her comically over-sized hammer out to the Clown Prince. He took it and raised it into the air. "What's a hammerfor?" he asked.

"I don't know. What is a hammerfor?" Harley asked. She knew the joke, but it was just as good the sixteenth time.

"For _this_!" The Joker exclaimed. He brought down the mallet with enough force to rattle the room.

"You can't do that to the word of God!" Paul protested.

"The Hell I can't!" the Joker laughed. He continued to beat the heap of paper into a pancake.

After several whacks, the Joker stopped. He handed the mallet back to Harley. Without another word, he walked to the door and opened it. The Joker crossed the street and stopped in front of the dying sedan.

"Harley, fetch the mallet again!" The Joker yelled.

John and Paul followed Harley outside. They watched in mutual horror as the Joker took the hammer to their car. One swing knocked the bumper, and its four pounds of stickers, off. Another broke the windshield. In a matter of seconds the roof had been caved in, the headlights were smashed, and the hood looked as though an elephant had sat on it.

It took the Joker ten minutes to run out of energy. He dropped the hammer to the ground and slumped down next to it. The car looked as though it had come off the loser in a demolition derby.

"Look what I did to the car of God!" the Joker said between panting breaths.

The two Jehovah's Witnesses stood frozen on the opposite side of the street. With Harley's assistance, the Joker was able to drag himself and the mallet over to them.

"I'd do the same to you, but I'm just too tired right now. Harley, is this thing getting bigger?"

The two clowns disappeared into the house. Harley poked her head out briefly.

"Maybe your car can get resurrected. If it does, send us the newsletter, 'kay?" She chirped. With that, she slammed the door.

The dejected Jehovah's Witnesses plodded down the street. They gave the crushed car one final look back. The driver's side door fell off. Paul was barely able to hold back tears. Over 1000 dollars had just been beaten into oblivion by a mad clown with a hammer.

John, who had no monetary stake in the car, turned to his fellow door-knocker. "Hey, Paul, I'm just wondering one thing. Do you think Batman has found salvation?"


	2. The Scarecrow

I didn't honestly expect this story to ruffle so many feathers. How very naive of me to think I could write something poking fun at religion and not get one flame. Still, I appreciate the reviewers who have a sense of humor.

BrocktreeJustLeft: Thanks. Like I said, I never tried humor before. I'm glad you like it.

GenvieveWoolf: Tread softly and carry a big stick. Haha. I certainly see your point about a disclaimer. I don't mean to be cruel. I just think people take religion much too seriously.

And as for my flamer, Kairi: I expected the people of this site be a little more open-minded. I'm just wondering if slash, torture, and vulgar language offend you as much. This is not bashing religion. It's making fun of folks who come to your door and try to force _their_ religion on _you_. Now that is religious intolerance. And I do have a life. A lovely one complete with college, boyfriend, job, and sense of humor.

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1 Week Later

The goldfish, lovingly named Subject 387, swam around its little bowl in circles. A creature of higher intelligence would have gotten bored with going around the same circuit a few hundred times, but Subject 387 had a ten-second memory. Or so the myth went. The Scarecrow honestly didn't care. He was too busy being annoyed.

For the past two weeks he had been suffering from a severe case of fish envy. A few months ago, the Joker had turned all the fish in Gotham harbor into grinning monstrosities nobody could eat. It had caused more panic than an outbreak of shark attacks ever could. The Joker, a clown, caused more fear than the Scarecrow! That wasn't right! He was the Master of Fear! The Joker played with cards and killed with gag gifts gone bad. It just wasn't normal.

Most people would say spending 14 days locked in a rat-hole apartment, trying to develop a toxin that scared fish wasn't normal behavior, either. For Jonathan Crane, it was about as normal as he ever got. Maybe if the citizens of Gotham knew he was poisoning fish instead of their friends and neighbors, they'd all be a great deal more understanding.

Subject 387 abruptly stopped swimming. It rolled over onto its back and floated to the surface. The Scarecrow looked up from his notebook just in time to see his latest victim die of natural causes.

"DAMN IT!" Crane yelled. Even for children, all the death of a fish normally warranted was a sniffle. To see a grown man throw a loud fit over a deceased goldfish was both hilarious and disturbing.

In his defense, Jonathan Crane had just lost his 387th fish. Even at five cents each, that amounted to over 19 dollars of fish and zero results. He was beginning to get odd looks at the ten pet stores he had visited to purchase his goldfish and this honestly couldn't go on much longer.

"That clown is _not_ going to get the best of me! Never! If he can make them grin, by God I will make them scream!"

There was a knock on the door.

The Scarecrow froze mid-tantrum. Only two people ever bothered him: the delivery man from China Now, and the crazy bat of a neighbor who banged on his door with her broom whenever he got a little too frenzied. He hadn't ordered any Chinese food. Therefore, the hag was at it again.

For a brief moment, Crane considered donning his burlap mask and scaring the witch into a deserved heart-attack. Then he figured in the police, the shameful arrest, the failure of his experiments, and the Joker getting to laugh in his face. He decided to calmly ask the hag to waddle back to her lair.

Unless the hag had a very successful sex-change operation and had actually found one human being who could stand her company, she wasn't at the door. Two men in suits, one holding a cardboard box stuffed with papers, stood in the hall. Upon seeing the gold crosses they both wore, the Scarecrow deduced they were Jehovah's Witnesses. Bugger.

"Sir, we couldn't help but hear you in there. Are you in a state of severe stress or upheaval? Letting the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart may solve many of your problems."

If the Scarecrow had about six extra feet of rope handy, he might have hanged himself right then and there. Instead, he slapped a hand to his forehead and moaned.

"When I die, you stay away from my funeral." He said. He then slammed his door on the two men.

He had gotten all of three feet when another knock came at his door. The Scarecrow ground his teeth and cursed. They were not going away. Fine. If they were going to come preaching their god, he was going to give them a taste of his.

The door flew open. John wisely took a step back, anticipating a fist or beer bottle to come flying at him.

"Sir, you seem to be very troubled. If you need help, we can give you contact information of various Christian agencies." Paul said.

"I was a psychiatrist! If I need help, I can sit myself down on a couch and interpret my dreams, all of which are perversely dark and depraved! Your hotlines are for pregnant teenage mothers who gave it up at prom. You can't help me. I've had so many stays at Arkham I lost count and I'm still loving this gig." the Scarecrow said.

"What gig would that be?" John asked.

Jonathan Crane said, "Come on in and I'll show you."

While the Joker's hideout had been a splash of colors, Crane's cheap apartment was as Spartan as it came. His bedroom and living room were the same space. The couch, which served as his bed, had been forced into the corner. Most of the room was dedicated to scientific equipment, bookshelves, and a network of tubes and beakers.

"Are you making meth? You're destroying the body God gave you with cheap poisons!" Paul cried.

The Scarecrow threw back his head and laughed. "Meth? Why waste time with one bad trip when they can _all_ be bad?"

"Uh, I do not want to deal with this level of weird. Last week was bad enough. Here, just read this and go to confession, or something." John said. He shoved his box into the Scarecrow's hands.

"Leaving so soon? I don't think so. Why, I haven't given you anything interesting to read." Crane said. He dropped the heavy box and grabbed hold of John's suit lapels.

If John hadn't rented the car they were currently driving, there was a good chance Paul would have run screaming from the apartment. As it was, with the keys in John's pocket and the neighborhood full of thugs that would ambush him just because he was there, Paul was forced to stay put as the lanky Scarecrow dragged John to the one of his bookshelves.

"Let's see. You seem like a chemistry nerd at heart. With those glasses, it's either geek or bad Lennon impersonator." Crane said.

Still holding tight with one hand, the Scarecrow selected a book from his little library. "_The Origin of Species_ by Charles Darwin. I've loved it since sixth grade. Do me a favor and don't burn it."

John was roughly thrown to the floor. "Your turn. Hm. Judging from how close you seem to be to fainting dead on my floor, I would say you don't handle fear well. I've got just the thing." The twisted professor tossed a book to Paul. It slipped through his limp fingers.

"Please, enjoy my hospitality. Have a seat. Read. I've just got one final thing to show you. I'll just be a minute. Don't get up. Really, don't. I'd hate for you to have to end up like Subjects 1 through 387." the Scarecrow said. He slipped into the bathroom. Thankfully, he was not forced to shower where he experimented.

Paul grabbed his book from the floor. "_The Shining_ by Stephen King. Oh God, I saw this movie."

"Pretend to read. This guy is some kind of crazy. Who do you think Subjects 1 through 387 were? They couldn't be people, could they?" John asked.

"No. Even in Gotham, 387 murders would have people in an uproar." Paul responded. He opened his book and scanned the first page.

Ten minutes later, the Scarecrow, in full costume, burst from the bathroom. John screamed and clutched himself. Paul threw his book at the Master of Fear. It flew over his head and landed in the sink.

"Now you'll meet my gods! Science and _fear_!" The Scarecrow said. Upon the word 'fear' he released his infamous fear toxin into the air.

With one panicked gasp each, Paul and John were thrown into a world of terrible hallucinations. John, terrified of the idea of evolution to begin with, was suddenly set upon by half evolved red-eyed monkeys with hideously human faces. He swung wild punches at the monsters only he could see. Paul collapsed into a ball and began to wail.

"Monkeys! Oh my God, it looks like my mother! Their _faces!_" John screamed.

"It's a bad place! Danny, it'll eat you!" Paul shrieked. He reached a desperate hand out to a boy who had never existed outside of a novel's pages.

The Scarecrow, ever the scientist, carefully observed the effects of the toxin on his two guests. Darwin had turned into something far worse than Lovecraft or Matheson for John. Paul was falling victim to the evil in the walls of the Overlook Hotel. This really was quite the entertaining show. Especially when one of John's disgusting monkeys took an invisible bite out of his ass.

"Gentlemen, can you describe what you're seeing right now? Can you talk through the terror?" Professor Crane asked. He retrieved a notebook and a pencil, just in case some exciting detail was revealed.

"There're monkeys everywhere! Don't you see them? Oh my God, there's one on your shoulder!" John exclaimed. He pointed at Crane before collapsing to the floor.

There was nothing even remotely resembling a monkey on his shoulder. Still, it was obviously an interesting hallucination. Sometimes the Scarecrow wished he would see what his test subjects saw. Then he remembered a man at Arkham who had hallucinated his rabbit had come back after 12 years in the grave to seek revenge over being starved to death. His mantra of 'its paws, its paws, it ate its paws' had been enough to unsettle even the sadistic Scarecrow. He didn't need the visual to the audio.

Paul, tightly curled in the fetal position, didn't respond. He only moaned like a zombie and drew his knees up tighter. Maybe he was being chased by an axe-wielding Jack Nicholson or something much worse.

"What in the hell are you doing in there? I can't hear my goddamn soap opera! I will call the police if you don't shut it now!"

The hag was at the door. In confirmation there were several heavy _whaps_ as she struck the door with her broom. The living fossil was going to ruin his fun!

Jonathan Crane was stuck in quite the nasty situation. He had a pair of poisoned, howling Jehovah's Witnesses writhing on his floor. He had no way of knowing how the long the fear toxin would keep them enthralled. Right outside his door he had the nastiest creature this side of Jurassic Park. He was done up in full costume. If he was busted now, 387 goldfish would have died for nothing.

"Don't call the police! Hold up, Agnes." The Scarecrow yelled. He wanted desperately to take off his mask, but his toxin was still in too heavy a concentration. His neighbor all ready thought he was some sort of deranged pervert. Why would she care if he liked to dress up as a scarecrow, too?

Crane dragged Paul, still curled up, to the door. He then dragged John with much more difficulty. He apparently believed one of his monkeys was now perched on the Scarecrow's head, and was trying to beat it down.

The Scarecrow opened his door and dragged both Witnesses into the hall. Agnes the hag backed up far enough to allow the pathetic men room to shiver. To prevent any of his poisons from escaping into the hall and ensnaring Agnes, Crane shut the door behind him. He wasn't surprised to see the hag glaring, her broom pointed at him like a lance.

"These two men are high on something. I invited them over for a beer and they started flapping around. This one is seeing flying monkeys or something." The Scarecrow gave John a good kick in the ribs.

"They're high? Then what in the hell is your excuse? Why are you dressed up like that?" Agnes demanded.

"This is my, uh, Halloween costume from last year. It won me fifty dollars in a contest and I thought my guests wanted to see it. Most people find it terrifying. It is the one talking point I own, Aggie." Crane said.

"Terrifying? Ha. You know what it is? Gay. I bet you and these two met at some club downtown and you were all going to dress in lady's clothes later." Agnes mocked.

"No, Agnes, we weren't. I met these guys outside the Quick Mart and didn't know they were junkies; they were dressed too damn nice for addicts. Do you want to call the landlord, or do you want them to scream here all day? I'm done giving free beer to people who are going to pull shit like this." Jonathan said.

Agnes poked Paul with the handle of the broom. He twitched and whimpered. The hag prodded him harder.

"Fine. Go back to your hot pants, or whatever you're doing. I'll call the landlord. He can drag these two out to the Dumpster." Agnes said.

The Scarecrow let out a relieved breath. "Fine by me."

As it turned out, the landlord didn't need to drag Paul and John. They were both able to crawl to the elevator, John still crying about his deformed primates and Paul just crying. Once they were on the ground floor, the landlord was able to direct them, via a series of kicks and shouts, to the door. Out on the street, they continued to crawl around like infants.

By the time they had crawled to their car, Paul was essentially back in control. He was at least able to stand. John was stumbling around on his hands and knees. When he looked up at the rental, he saw a monkey sitting on the roof. Another was twanging the radio antenna. A primate with the face of the Vice President was idly scratching itself on the hood. It was all too much. John blacked out.

Paul dragged his friend into the passenger seat. He pulled the keys from his pocket and jammed them into the ignition. Ignoring all speed limits, forgetting about any little old ladies that might be crossing the street, Paul put the pedal to the metal. With a screech of tires the car shot off.

A few minutes later John came to. He was sweating profusely. "Paul, the monkeys are gone. They're all gone, Paul. Thank God. God took the monkeys back to hell."

"Yes he did, John. That's right. Keep your faith. God got rid of those monkeys."

"That man back there, he summoned the monkeys. Is he the Devil?" John asked.

"No, he isn't. He's the Scarecrow. Believe it or not, there really were no monkeys. He poisoned us. I think we should call the cops. Then again, I don't want to end up like Subjects 1 through 387. Maybe we should just forgive him. What do you think?" Paul asked.

"I don't think we should try to convert people who worship fear or science."

"Good idea."


	3. TwoFace

Once again, a great many thanks to my reviewers:

BrocktreeJustLeft: Glad you like the new chapter. I'll try to keep it up.

Voldy's pink teddy: You've got a lovely pen name. My own personal experiences actually influenced this story. I live out in the country, and somehow the Witnesses find me several times a year. I don't know why they keep coming back. They're never coming in. Last time they tried to give me a pamphlet on how _God_ was responsible for global warming as some kind of punishment. Weirdness.

Keeper-of-the-Cheese: Fascinating name, truly. Anyway, you're a born again Christian who can take a little heat? Man, that's cool. Like I said, I don't mean to be cruel or offensive. Just a little less serious.

One little Author's Note. I mention the 10 Commandments later on. I'm using the Roman Catholic version. I know the Jewish and some of the other Christian versions are slightly different.

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3 Hours Later

John and Paul fidgeted restlessly in the uncomfortable chairs in the ER waiting room. It was made even more unpleasant by the reoccurring hallucinations that kept plaguing John. Apparently not all of the Scarecrow's fear toxin had been flushed from his system. A monkey with a pompadour and fat cheeks was just wheeled away on a gurney, if his eyes were to be believed. He felt like the man in that episode of _The Twilight Zone_ who saw the gremlin on the plane wing and was the only one savvy to its tampering.

"Uh, Nurse, we've been sitting here for ages. We were poisoned by the Scarecrow. My friend is still suffering." Paul said.

The nurse glared at them. "The Scarecrow? Tell me when a real villain attacks you. We've got six kids with grins to their ears. The Joker doesn't like Girl Scouts. Some poor guy was scratched to hell because he made a lewd pass at Catwoman. There's a woman just brought in claiming she was attacked by Mothman, or something. Mothman got tangled in her hair and now she's got a bald spot as big as a fist."

"Who in the hell is _Mothman_? The Scarecrow's got to trump him. My friend's seeing _monkeys with human heads_! Help us." Paul demanded. Then he realized he had said 'hell' and sat down to say a few Hail Mary prayers as penance.

From outside came the wailing of ambulance sirens. They grew increasingly shrill before cutting off abruptly. A few seconds later two paramedics half dragged, half carried a man into the ER.

"No! Listen to me before I snap your neck! I don't need emergency surgery. I've looked like this for years. Let me go. I'm refusing treatment. Do you hear me?"

The harried nurse, as well as the other patients awaiting treatment, turned to look at the spectacle. One paramedic was thrown against the wall and slid into a heap. The other was grabbed by the throat and lifted off his feet. He was slammed into the wall above his crumpled co-worker.

"My name is Two-Face. I have two faces. See all this? It doesn't even hurt. Look. I can poke it all day. The nerves are dead. Speaking of which-"

Harvey Dent, former famous politician turned scarred criminal, held the paramedic with one hand. He reached into his suit and pulled out a coin. One side was untouched, the other heavily scratched.

"Heads, I take an apology and walk four miles back to my secret hideout. Tails, I give the doctors one big mess to clean up." Two-Face said. He flipped the coin.

"Lucky man. All you have to do is apologize." He dropped the paramedic, who was beginning to turn an unhealthy shade of blue.

"Sorry. Sorry 'bout that." The paramedic wheezed. He clutched his throat and gasped.

The other EMT groaned. "I'm sorry, too. But you have to realize what you look like. I mean, it looks like you stuck half your head in a waffle iron! We only wanted to help."

Two-Face promptly stomped on him. "Did you two move to Gotham yesterday? I'm one of the most infamous villains. How did you not recognize me? I'm so damn insulted I'm tempted to flip over execution methods."

"Sorry again! It's just that, well, you're not the Joker or anything. Now there's a face I would know not to mess with."

The choked paramedic, and most of the emergency room, moaned. Every time this guy opened his mouth, he instantly inserted his foot.

"The Joker? _The Joker_! I can't believe this. I have never been more insulted in my whole life! You, my friend, just signed your death warrant. Heads, by firing squad. Tails, by my shoes."

Paul's stomach contracted to roughly the size of a cashew. He had a moral obligation to save the paramedic's life. He also had a _mortal_ obligation to live until tomorrow. He almost wished he had his own coin to toss. Heads, I sit here and cower. Tails, I get up and try to talk Two-Face out of murder.

"Excuse me, Mr. Dent. If you kill than man, you will be breaking the Fifth Commandment. That's one of the most important ones." Paul said.

Two-Face turned. "What are you talking about?"

"The Ten Commandments? Well, you see, Moses had just led his people from slavery in Egypt. God decided to give his ten most important laws to them. So Moses-"

"I know the story! I mean, why are you interfering? You know this guy?" Two-Face asked.

"He's my brother. Religiously speaking. You're my brother, too, in that sense." Paul said.

Harvey tucked his coin away. He pulled out a gun from some interior pocket. "Well, brother, I've got news for you. You're going to end up like Abel if you don't scram."

Paul swallowed compulsively. "All right. I'll leave if you come with me. These people here are all very sick. My friend John is seeing red-eyed monkeys. He doesn't need this. Let's just go outside and take a deep breath, or have a good cry, or whatever you need."

Two-Face looked from the paramedic with the malfunctioning brain to the Jehovah's Witness. He reluctantly put the gun away. The coin reappeared.

"Heads, I go with you. Tails, I shoot the paramedic, drag you outside, and run you down with an ambulance."

The coin spun in Matrix-style slow motion. Paul closed his eyes and prayed for divine intervention.

"Two lucky men! Shame we're not in Vegas. Let's go clear our heads." Two-Face said.

The disfigured criminal turned from the terrified emergency room and walked out the door. Paul, a man of his word, followed reluctantly. John got up, but shrunk back when a monkey strutted in front of him. He wasn't going anywhere, it seemed.

Outside, Two-Face began to flip his coin. Paul watched the little silver disk rise and fall. Every time Dent caught it with no effort. He must have practiced for a while. Whenever Paul tried to flip a coin, it always ended up rolling across the floor and usually behind some furniture.

"So, I didn't know people still wanted to be martyrs." Two-Face said.

"What? No, I don't want to be a martyr. I just couldn't let you blow that guy away. He was trying to be a Good Samaritan. Why does that bother you? It's noble." Paul said.

Two-Faced scowled. His deformed side raised the scowl's effect exponentially. Paul couldn't help but cringe away.

"Noble? I told the paramedic for _four miles_ that I wasn't a disoriented burn victim. He just kept asking my name and if I had any immediate kin. He wasn't noble. He was brain dead." Dent responded.

"He's probably 20 years old. Of course he's brain dead. That's not an excuse. You've got a mean temper. That's not spiritually healthy. Wrath is one of the Seven-"

"Seven Deadly Sins. I know. I saw that _Seven_ movie. If I need a morality coach, I'll give myself up to the police. Arkham's run by people like you. Good, bad, black, white, heads, tails. Don't preach to me." Two-Face said.

Paul said, "Who should I preach to, then? The Joker, Harley Quinn, and the Scarecrow don't want us to come knocking, either."

Two-Face snorted. "You expect me to believe that you visited the Joker, his crazy broad, and Straw-Head, and survived? Please. You wouldn't stand a chance with any of them."

"John and I did indeed meet them all and did survive. The Joker beat my car to death with a giant hammer, and the Scarecrow poisoned us, but we're alive. God hasn't called me home yet." Paul said.

"Of course not. You've still got to meet Poison Ivy, the Riddler, Mad Hatter, Penguin, Mr. Freeze, Catwoman, always assuming she isn't jumping Batman's bones, Clayface, Killer Croc, and any other freak I can't recall. You're just getting started, buddy." Two-Face said.

The world doubled in front of Paul's eyes. There was no way he and John could be unlucky enough to meet that many villains. True, they'd run into four in the past week, but this had to be the end of the streak. Surely God wasn't that cruel! Was he?

Two-Face slapped Paul on the shoulder. "Good luck. When you wander across the Riddler, tell him he owes me some money. Don't worry what it's about. Just pass along that message. And tell the Mad Hatter his tea tastes like something that would drain from road kill. Don't drink any and don't let him dress you up like Alice, either."

"I'm not going to meet them! This is just bad luck, a nasty roll of the dice." Paul protested.

"Anything you say. Four bad flips of the coin, and number five will be better. If you want to believe that, go on ahead. I think you and your friend are cursed. Maybe I'll be seeing you at Arkham one of these days. According to the Joker, one really bad day can drive a man insane. I wonder what a really bad month can do." Two-Face mused.

Paul wanted to faint. He had enough for one day. His mind desperately needed to shut down and recharge for a few hours.

"You're looking sick, brother. Maybe you'd better head back into the ER. I've got a long walk ahead of me. Good thing the weather's nice." Two-Face said. With that, he turned toward the parking lot, whistling and tossing his appropriately scarred coin.

Paul forced his feet to carry him back to his seat. John was still sitting in the same chair, staring at the entrance to the ER. He only moved his head when Paul sat down.

"You're not dead." John said.

"No. Two-Face went away happy. He was whistling and everything."

"How did you pull that off? He was ready to kill five minutes ago." John said.

"Apparently, our misery amuses him. He thinks we're going to meet with some terrible fortune in the coming days. We're God's missionaries to super-villains, or something." Paul said.

Before John could reply, a doctor finally announced he could treat him. Thanks to Batman's need to beat the straw out of the Scarecrow quite often, he had developed an antidote for the fear toxin. Under the premise scientists at Wayne Industries had created the antidote, it was distributed to the major hospitals in Gotham. A quick shot and the monkeys were really gone for good.

Five minutes later, John and Paul walked from the ER. All they had to show for hours of trauma and waiting was a small bandage on John's arm. It seemed like a Presidential Medal of Freedom would be more appropriate.

"I think we need to find the positive light in all this. If nothing else, we'll have some great stories to tell the other Witnesses. Maybe this will also get more people to listen to us. I would certainly lend an ear to a guy who met the Joker and lived." John said.

"What if we don't live?" Paul asked.

John dismissed the idea. "Have faith! We all ready survived the Joker, Harley, Scarecrow, and Two-Face. It can only get better. Right?"


	4. Poison Ivy

Wow. I am a little surprised at how many reviews I'm getting. I am really loving it!

Thanks again to Voldy's pink teddy. And may Stephen Colbert live long and prosper. What a great guy. Who needs to be politically correct, anyway?

BrocktreeJustLeft: I haven't met many born-again Christians. Where I live, most people are satisfied with only being born once. Anyway, thanks for the 3rd review.

Silent Stranger: I had to go to Wikipedia to find out about Maxie Zeus. I think I'll stick to villains I have a bit of info on all ready. Thanks for making me wonder, though.

TorontoBatFan: Dark humor is something I've always aspired to write. I am insanely pleased you think I'm good.

Hailey Golden: You caught me. My main source of knowledge of Johovah's Witness beliefs came from Wikipedia. As for making Paul and John just generic holy-rollers, it's a wee bit late. I cry the pardon of the offended, but they're staying Witnesses.

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The Next Morning

Paul hadn't felt this good in at least a week. Maybe it was the ten hours of sleep he had gotten. Maybe it was simple joy at still being alive. Maybe it was because he had decided to take the day off from proselytizing. If he wasn't knocking door to door, there was zero chance he'd run into any of Gotham's impressive collection of killers, criminals, clowns and crazies.

There was a knock at his door. Well, that was something new.

John stood outside. His rental car was parallel-parked across the street.

"Since you decided to take the day off, so did I. I'm still feeling a little fuzzy in the head, anyway. Look, I have a lot of family who aren't Witnesses, and I'll feel bad if I don't acknowledge their existence at least on Christmas and Easter. Will you come shopping with me?" John asked.

Paul looked around his apartment. He had been planning on reading his Bible, watching some television, and generally lounging around like a bachelor. Shopping for cheap made-in-China rabbit themed gifts and flowers that died in three days didn't sound anywhere near as fun as the Book of Revelations. But that shouldn't matter. John was his friend; he was also horrible at finding proper gifts. His nephews had stopped accepting his birthday gifts after he sent them children's Bibles three years in a row.

"Of course, John. I'd be happy to come shopping with you. Let me just find my jacket." Paul said.

Five minutes later, Paul located his coat under the bathroom sink. He must have been more tired than he thought last night. He slipped it on, grateful the pipes hadn't decided to leak all over it. His plumbing was shoddy, and sometimes downright cruel.

Though Paul was grateful for John's rental car, he was missing his own sedan badly. He wondered what had become of its corpse since he and John and left it sitting outside the Joker's hideout last week. If he was lucky, it had been dragged to the scrap yard. More likely, the Joker had stripped it for parts to use in something that exploded and caused heavy casualties. The idea of his poor, loyal car being used in some immoral death-machine made Paul sick.

"You remember our meeting last Sunday? Dana gushed about this new florist who just opened not too far from here. She told me the woman's got a green thumb and she actually haggles over prices. Isn't that weird?" John said.

Paul broke out of his reverie. "Hm? Yeah, that's odd. What does she sell, again?"

"She's a florist, so I'm going to bet she sells flowers. Is there something on your mind? You seem distracted." John said.

"I miss my car. I had to budget myself down to bread and water to afford it, and now it's gone. I doubt if I'll get anything from the insurance; they don't have mallet coverage. It's just material goods, but that was one _good_ car." Paul said.

John patted his rental's dashboard. "I liked your car, too. This one's got working heat and air-conditioning, but yours had class. I can't even put bumper stickers on it. I asked about that, and the rental clerk told me I'd be scraping them off with my fingernails."

"Ouch. Well, I guess they let atheists rent these cars, too. Nobody wants any lawsuits." Paul said.

With the morning rush-hour thinning to those late for work and those who had no work, John made it to the florist in less than 20 minutes. The shop had been set up in a run-down building that had been vacant for at least a year. By some miracle, its large plate glass display windows had escaped vandals' rocks and drunks' mean-spirited stupidity. Most of the neighboring places hadn't been so lucky.

"Why would anyone sell flowers from a place like this? The area's cash crop is probably marijuana." John said.

"I bet the rent's cheap. Maybe she does urban renewal work. Let's go and see." Paul said.

John expertly swung the car into a narrow spot. He was a master of parallel parking. In this part of town you needed to be. People got turned inside out for denting a fender or cracking a headlight. Road rage wasn't so much the problem as 'parking' rage.

The display windows were alive with color. A dozen potted tulips had been lined up. Each was a color so vibrant John could swear he was seeing it on a high-definition television screen. Behind the tulips, purely white Easter lilies stood sentry. Even through the glass, the sweet scent of spring flowers freshened the air.

"Impressive. This woman must know what she's doing." Paul said.

Paul and John entered the store. The scent of flowers almost bowled them over as soon as they opened the door. Nearly every corner of the store was covered in greenery or bursting with blooms. A few tiny cactuses even sat on top of the cash register. It was like stepping off the sidewalk and landing in the middle of the Costa Rican rainforest.

Several customers loitered around, examining the plants. Some of them weren't even moving; they had just parked themselves next to a particularly fragrant group of hyacinths and were breathing deeply. Not one person in the store looked stressed or tired. They all seemed as loose and peaceful as Buddhists after meditation.

"Can I help you gentlemen with anything?"

So this woman must be the store's owner. Her most striking feature was her bright orange hair, which had been tied back into a bushy ponytail. Paul instantly got a strange sense of déjà-vu. He knew this woman from somewhere. She wasn't a friend, he didn't think they'd ever met personally, but he knew her. Had she been on television for something?

"Probably, since I don't have a clue. I have a pile of relatives I need gifts for. I heard through the grapevine that you have reasonable prices and don't neglect quality. Do you have anything for an 84-year-old woman who is allergic to everything in the rose family?" John asked.

The redhead laughed. "Why do men think roses are the only flowers women care about? Let me introduce you to a whole new world."

While the florist introduced John to dozens of blooms his sensitive, arthritic grandmother could care for without sneezing her dentures out, Paul casually strolled around on his own. That feeling of déjà-vu was growing ever stronger. He _knew_ that woman. She wasn't an old classmate, she hadn't gone to his church, and she wasn't a distant relative. She had been on television; he would bet money if he believed in gambling. Was she a retired newswoman? Did she sell French perfume on those home shopping networks? Had she done something shameful on reality TV?

'Come on! How many red-headed women are on TV? There's Dana Scully, and that's it. Her hair isn't anywhere near that shade. This is driving me insane.' Paul thought.

Exacerbated, Paul turned to look at an obviously imported potted palm tree. He touched its broad, waxy leaves. They were strangely shiny, almost like the leaves of-

"Poison Ivy."

The florist turned, carefully balancing an Easter lily in one hand and what looked like a blooming cabbage in the other. "Did you say something?"

"I think we need to leave. Now. Faster. Yesterday. Leg it, John!" Paul yelled. All the customers in the store turned to stare at him.

"Is something the matter? Do you need to sit down for a second? You're pale." The florist asked.

John scratched his head. "What's wrong, Paul? Why do we need to leave? I haven't bought anything yet."

Paul grabbed John by the arm and practically wrestled him away from the confused florist. He dragged John behind a display of ornamental ferns.

"That florist is Poison Ivy! She poisons people with her plants. We have to do something, or all these people are dead by Easter." Paul whispered.

John's mouth came unhinged, like that of an anaconda swallowing a goat. "Poison Ivy is another villain. We weren't even knocking around. We _are_ God's missionaries to these people."

Poison Ivy still held the two plants, and was regarding the whispering Witnesses with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. She had seen some strange people come and go, but none had crowded in the corner, looking to all the world like a conspiring Brutus and Cassius. What in the hell were they doing over there?

"Ok, so we're fated to meet every rogue in Gotham. Maybe good can come out of it. I talked Two-Face out of murder. We can still save these customers. Let's do it and pray we aren't fed to a giant Venus flytrap." Paul said.

With a quick nod, they broke their huddle. Paul and John turned to the piqued patrons.

"I'm sorry to report you are all in extreme danger. You may be buying your own deaths right here in this store." Paul said.

Several of the customers gasped. A few looked around the store, trying to find the dangerous items Paul was talking about. One man turned and ran out the door, leaving his hibiscus behind.

"What are you talking about? We're just buying flowers." A woman said.

"The owner of this store is none other than the convicted eco-terrorist known as Poison Ivy! All of these plants must be laced with toxic pollen or something terrible. Please, don't panic. Would someone kindly phone the police?" Paul said.

The lily, and its heavy ceramic pot, came crashing down on Paul's head. The unidentified, round flower struck John in the forehead. Luckily, its pot was plastic and bounced off harmlessly.

"How dare you! You come into my legitimate place of business and accuse me of plotting _murder_? I was released from Arkham a month ago. If you want, I can call my parole officer down here. The two of us will kindly kick your asses!" Poison Ivy snarled.

"Uh, paroled? You mean you didn't escape, and you weren't planning an Easter massacre of careless plant owners?" John asked.

"No! I am making money to fund my greenhouse. I grew every single one of these plants. None of them can cause anything worse than hay fever." Ivy replied.

Paul didn't respond. He was too busy clutching his wounded head. That ceramic pot had raised a lump the size of a chicken egg. He wouldn't be surprised if he had a concussion, or a possible cerebral hemorrhage. If he did, that was certainly the end of him. Brain surgery would surely bleed him dry, and Jehovah's Witnesses didn't accept blood transfusions. If something in his brain had ruptured, he was going to be the only man in history killed by a super-villain wielding a lily.

"You're a freaking jerk, man! This chick did her time. You think she's not good enough to run a business, just because she served some time?" One of the customers demanded.

John was left defenseless. "Of course not. I'm a Jehovah's Witness. I'm all about forgiveness. We thought, with her history-"

"You just assumed the lady was trying to kill us? What's wrong with you? I bet she's reformed."

"You're Jehovah's Witnesses? Damn! Why don't you just leave people alone? Mind your own business."

"Screw you, Conservative foot soldier!"

"If you're sorry, you'd better apologize."

The customers had rallied around Poison Ivy. John felt like a bastard. Paul felt like his head was going to split down the middle and his brain was going to come tumbling out.

"Miss Ivy, I am truly sorry. This is humiliating for me. Please, accept my apology." John said.

Poison Ivy glared at him with hard green eyes. "What about your friend? Is he sorry? I think this is mostly his fault. That's why he got the lily."

"Uh, Paul? You going to apologize?" John asked. "Paul, are you hurt?"

In response, Paul turned around in a drunken circle. His feet became tangled and he fell flat on his face. The impact with the floor jolted his all ready reeling head. His vision doubled, swam, and went dark.

"He's not dying. Please, don't cry on that orchid. It's a hybrid species I've had significant trouble breeding. For God's sake, that is _not_ a Kleenex!"

Paul blinked. His head still hurt, but it was more like a tension headache than the signal of impending brain-death. He didn't dare touch the lump for confirmation, but it felt like the swelling had gone down, too. Maybe he wasn't going to die of an exploding brain, after all.

A face surrounded by a bright orange halo appeared is his vision. For a moment Paul thought it was angelic. Then he remembered the head-wound. It was unlikely people in heaven had to put up with their earthly injuries.

"What did I tell you? He's awake." Poison Ivy said.

John's face now hovered above him. There was no way anyone would mistake John for an angel. The dirt in his hair and smudged on his face from the assault of the potted plant, coupled with the 1960's-style John Lennon glasses, proved John was firmly rooted to this temporal plane.

"I'm not dead. That's great. But where am I? Are you going to feed us to the giant Venus flytrap now?" Paul asked.

Poison Ivy frowned. "I guess you weren't paying attention when I said I was paroled, huh? I may or may not have promised certain officials free floral arrangements for life as an incentive, but I'm legally out. And I do not have a giant flytrap. I do have a pitcher plant large enough to dissolve a guinea pig, but don't say a word about it."

"As for our current location, Pam kindly dragged you to her office. It's also the storeroom. Space is kind of limited." John said.

"Pam? Who's Pam?" Paul asked.

"Pamela Isley. I wasn't born Poison Ivy, you know."

"I guess not. Why didn't you just, I don't know, dispose of us? Isn't that what normally happens to people that get on your bad side? It isn't that I'm not grateful! I'm just curious as to why I'm not compost." Paul said.

Poison Ivy sighed. "Firstly, you'd be awful compost. Do you have any idea of how bad it would stink in here if I threw two adult males into my compost bins? Secondly, I do have a conscience. I don't go around killing and maiming everyone who upsets me. Do I look like the Joker to you?"

"Mercifully not." John said.

"I may have over-reacted. A ceramic pot might have been a little harsh. I suppose sticking a cactus down your pants would have sufficed." Isley said.

Paul propped himself up into a sitting position. It was just then that he realized he had been lying on a pile of bags of potting soil. John had kindly provided his jacket as a pillow.

"Thanks for the jacket, John. Uh, Ms. Ivy, do you think I should go to the hospital?" Paul asked.

"Sure, if you want to spend five hours waiting, and five more getting poked, prodded, and pumped full of chemicals. I honestly don't know why people need synthetic medicines anyway. Nature provides."

"Out of simple curiosity, did nature provide a cure for the worst headache of my life?" Paul asked.

"As a matter of fact, she did. Just a little willow bark tea. Willow bark was the original aspirin, you know. One of thousands of plants man could benefit from, if he wasn't slash-and-burning the rainforests down." Poison Ivy said. She sighed wistfully. "What a terrible shame."

With a little effort and swaying, Paul got off the potting soil and onto his feet. His headache had gone down another notch. He picked up John's crumpled coat and handed it back to him.

"Are we free to go?" Paul asked.

"Sure. I have to open the door, though. After I brained you, I'll admit I didn't immediately help you. I took care of all the customers, locked the door, and dragged you back here like a bag of fertilizer. A particularly big, moaning bag of fertilizer."

Pamela Isley escorted John and Paul from the storeroom back into the main body of the store. It was utterly deserted, the little sign in the window informing all potential customers to come knocking another time.

"Before you go, I want you both to have something." Poison Ivy said.

She took two small plants from a display. Each plant had dark green leaves and white flowers. The flowers grew on thin stalks and consisted of one large petal.

"Peace lilies. Take them as an apology, a gift, or a bribe for not alerting the police. If you want to give it to your grandmother, it shouldn't aggravate her allergies." she said.

John and Paul accepted the plants with thanks. Ivy opened the door and dismissed them into the sunshine. Behind them, she turned the sign back to 'open'.

"All things considered, that wasn't so bad. She was certainly the nicest villain we met so far." John said.

"Two-Face didn't hit me with a pot." Paul replied.

"Two-Face wasn't beautiful, either."

"John, for the love of God, get it out of your head. You're never getting a date with Poison Ivy."

"But what if she converted-"

"No."


	5. Killer Croc

A million thanks to my reviewers. I am overwhelmed at the responses. Thanks for making me feel worthy. I hope you enjoy chapter 5.

Author's Note: I attempt to mimic a Louisiana bayou accent later on. It is supposed to sound uneducated. I am not out to offend the South. Please, don't kil me over it.

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"Destiny, destiny, no escaping that for me! Destiny, destiny, no escaping that for me!" -Dr. Frederick Frankenstein in _Young Frankenstein_

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Three Days Later

The car swerved, nearly side-swiping a pickup truck, before leaping the curb and slamming into a fire hydrant. A geyser of water erupted from the demolished hydrant. The owner of the truck extended his middle finger and pounded his horn. People quickly scurried away from the crashed sedan, expecting a brawl to ensue between its occupants and the enraged trucker they had nearly hit.

The car had barely come to rest before John practically threw himself out the door. He ran from his crumpled rental, ignoring the water raining down from the gushing hydrant.

Paul emerged slower, a thin trickle of blood dripping down from his hairline. He pressed a hand to staunch the bleeding.

"Alligator! Jesus Christ, Paul, I saw an alligator! It was huge! An alligator walking on two legs! I'll swear it to God; I saw an alligator on two legs!" John screamed. He scrambled to the side of the road. If not for the guard rail, there was a good chance the Jehovah's Witness would have tumbled down the embankment and into the mud at the bottom of the trench.

By the time Paul caught up with John, he was climbing over the guard rail. He was still yelling loud enough for half the city to hear about a humanoid lizard.

"John, what are you doing? Get back here!" Paul demanded.

"There's a flashlight in the trunk! Paul, go and get it. Bring the tire iron, too. Go! We have to find that alligator." John said.

Paul grabbed his friend from behind and attempted to drag him away from the rail and the steep slope just beyond them. Since John was 20 pounds heavier, and having some sort of manic hallucination, he didn't get very far.

"Let me go. This is important. All those myths about gators flushed into the sewers are true! Paul, we have to find it and report it to the media." John said.

"Listen to me. You're talking about an alligator walking around like a man! It isn't possible, outside of _Animal Farm_. You hit your head on the steering wheel, and you need to have a brain scan." Paul reasoned.

John shook his head. "No. I saw it _before_ I crashed. Actually, I crashed _because_ I saw it. Go get the flashlight. It went into that tunnel. We'll need some light."

"I can't get the flashlight; I don't have the keys." Paul said.

John fished them out of his pocket. "Here you go. The flashlight's next to the box of Bibles, unless the impact knocked it somewhere else. Go, go, go!"

This was utterly insane. Paul couldn't actually believe he was going to engage in a wild gator hunt.

A small group of rubberneckers had crowded around the sedan. The hydrant was still erupting, and a flood of water was now running down the side of the road. Traffic was stalled, mainly due to the numerous onlookers who had stopped dead in the middle of the street. Paul couldn't hear any sirens yet, though he figured someone must have called 911.

'The sooner we get into the drain pipe, the sooner the smell can drive John back to his senses.' Paul thought as he opened the trunk. By the time he found the flashlight and got the tire iron, he was soaked through. The day was mild, but the water could have been funneled straight off a glacier. If he didn't catch a cold, it would be a bona fide miracle.

John was all ready standing at the bottom of the 20 foot embankment. A long skid about eight feet down, and a thick coat of mud on John's pants and shoes, revealed he had slid most of the way to the bottom.

"Come on, Paul. Don't drop the flashlight. Watch where I fell; it's slippery." John said.

Berating himself for being an idiot, John stepped over the guard rail. He stood at the lip of the hill and looked down. There was no way he was going to make it to John without getting immensely filthy and bruised.

Paul inched himself down the hill. Half way down, he skidded on a rock hidden by the muck and dead leaves from last fall. Paul wind-milled his arms, nearly smacking himself in the face with the tire iron. His wild flailing somehow paid off. He regained his balance and continued the suicide mission to the bottom of the embankment.

"You have the flashlight? It still works, right?" John asked.

Paul clicked the flashlight on. It had survived the accident without so much as a scratch. Why couldn't the batteries be dead, the bulb cracked, or the entire body reduced to nothing but plastic splinters? Was it too much to ask?

"Great. I think you should keep that, and I should have the tire iron. I played baseball in high school. I could swing like nobody's business." John said. Paul silently handed him the tire iron, wondering what good it would do against a giant imaginary alligator.

The concrete drain pipe was easily big enough to admit a man. Or a reptile that had somehow evolved bipedal locomotion. John climbed in without hesitation. Paul was sure he would rather walk into a burning building. Despite his myriad misgivings, he followed with the flashlight.

To Paul's surprise, the pipe didn't reek. There was only a damp smell, like what occurred in badly finished basements prone to flooding. So much for the stench driving John out. Maybe the green slime growing in disgusting patches all over the walls would do it, instead.

John stopped abruptly. "This looks like a footprint. This _is_ a print. Look, it has five toes. It's the wrong shape for a human foot, though."

Kneeling down in a layer of mud and rotting wet leaves, John outlined the print. Paul prayed his friend was just making patterns that weren't really there, the same way people saw figures in clouds or faces on the surface of Mars. Upon looking at the impression, that idea went sailing away to the stratosphere. There was no mistaking what had been pressed into the mud.

"I see it. We have proof now. A footprint is all the evidence anyone will need." Paul said.

"What about Bigfoot, then? They have _hundreds_ of footprint casts, and I still don't see any pictures of him in field guides. We need to at least get a clearer view." John said.

"You need more evidence? What about a body? Mine! If this creature is real, it's enormous. Look at the size of its foot. It will eat me and chew your arms clean off." Paul said.

John had somehow overlooked the primary function of an alligator: predating on smaller creatures, and the occasional Floridian golfer who tried to retrieve his ball from the water hazard. In his haste to chase down the legendary sewer dwelling gator, all he had thought to bring for protection was a tire iron. Against a monstrous reptile's scaly hide, powerful tail, and dozens of killing teeth, it seemed as dangerous as a toothpick.

"Uh, we just have to be careful. All I want is a good look. The gator doesn't even have to know we saw it." John said.

John carefully made his way around the print. Paul briefly considered stepping on it and ending this craziness. That seemed dishonorable, and would probably end with John taking the flashlight and continuing on by himself. Paul supposed if he could stand with his friend through the ever-increasing list of villains they had encountered, he could stick by him until this adventure was resolved.

To Paul's growing horror, the print was not a fluke. Hardly two feet further along, John discovered another one. Beyond that, there were more. They were following a definite, clear trail. For the life of him, Paul could not think of a reasonable explanation as to how dozens of deformed footprints came to exist in a drain pipe an impossible creature had been sighted entering.

By the time John stopped yipping like an excited terrier at every new print in the mud, the Witnesses had travelled hundreds of feet into the tunnel. The only light came from their flashlight. The entrance to the drain was hardly more than a pinprick of brightness. Past the beam of the flashlight, darkness reigned. If there was ever a more perfect horror-movie scene, Paul hoped never to stumble into it.

The footprints, as well as the unpleasant debris that held them, unexpectedly disappeared beneath water. John took one step too many and sunk up to his knees in freezing black water.

"Watch it, Paul. The tunnel drops out here." John said. He backed out of the brackish water and onto solid cement.

"Your gator went in there. I don't know about you, but I am not about to go swimming." Paul said.

Paul shined the flashlight around the lake that blocked their path. Garbage, a tennis ball, sticks, a swimming rat, and an ungodly amount of unnamable filth floated in the water. There was no way any living thing that swam in could emerge without mutation.

"I've had enough. Let's get out of here. The footprints will have to be enough." Paul said.

John struck the wall of the pipe with the tire iron. Paul leapt at the sudden explosion of noise. The flashlight beam jittered, illuminating the lake with phantoms and jumping shadows.

"Come on, gator! Fresh meat right here! Tasty Jehovah's Witnesses!" John swung the iron against the wall again.

"Have you lost your mind, John? Give me that goddamned thing!" Paul ordered. He was so angry he didn't even realize he had used the Lord's name in vain.

Compared to the next seven words that came out of his mouth, 'goddamned' sounded like poetry.

The stagnant water in front of them exploded. The rat that had been merrily paddling was sent flying into the air. A monstrous black shape, far taller and broader than a normal man, emerged from the filthy lake.

Paul's hands clamped down like a pincer on the flashlight. With curses he didn't he know he knew gibbering from his mouth, he managed to point the beam at the hulk.

The creature was, for all intents and purposes, an alligator on two legs. It was scaly, green, and well over seven feet tall. Paul had to gather every ounce of willpower he had before he had the guts to shine the flashlight in the monster's face. As he expected, the bipedal alligator had a snout lined with teeth. Yellow eyes with slit pupils that contracted in the sudden light finished the picture.

"What in the hell are y'all doin' down here? Ain't some of the Bat's friends, are ya? 'Cause if ya are, I'm gonna have ta eat ya."

Scratch that. A deep growl of a voice and a cracker accent completed the picture. This creature wasn't a native of Gotham, not with an accent like that. He had crawled out of a bayou down South.

"You're a human?" John asked.

"Nah. I'm just a gator gone to school and learned himself some English."

Neither John nor Paul had any reply.

"Ya never heard of a joke? 'Course I'm human. I got the grand daddy of all skin conditions is all. That don't answer ma questions, though. Who are ya?"

John found his voice first. "I'm John, he's Paul. We're Jehovah's Witnesses, not Batman's sidekicks. Please don't eat us."

"John an' Paul? Plenty nice names. Most people round here call me Killer Croc. Got a ring to it, huh?"

Paul mouthed 'Killer Croc'. There was one more villain to cross off the list. A nice, quiet drive had been disrupted by a gigantic, mutated Cajun who lived in the sewers. Nothing short of destiny could be responsible for such a turn of events.

"And did ya say ya was Jehovah's Witnesses? That anything like the hell-fire preachers? Ya know, 'the Lawd will smite the wicked with his righteous lightning and cast them down into the Pit'. Ya do that kind of preaching?" Killer Croc asked. "There was a lot of those folks back home."

"No. We, uh, go door to door and hand out Christian literature." Paul said.

Killer Croc looked around his dim domain. "Ya normally come knockin' down here?"

"I saw you crawling into this drain. It startled me so badly I crashed my car. It's a rental, and the agency is going to hang me out to dry. I had to make sure I wasn't hallucinating again. I dragged my friend along, and we found you." John explained.

The scaly villain ran a clawed hand down his snout. "Scared ya, did I? Can't say it's never happened before. I got a face not even a mother could love."

"I'm sure God still loves you." Paul offered.

Killer Croc snorted. "Ya sure don't sound like them hell-fire preachers. Ya really think God cares 'bout me? I've tried to eat people, ya know. Damn near ate the Bat couple of times. One time I took this big old bite out of his cape. Choked on it, though."

"You tried to _eat_ Batman? May I ask why?" John asked.

"I ain't got all these teeth for nothing. Besides, it's in my nature. Ain't you ever watched _National Geographic_? Those crocs down in Africa, they wait. When the zebra comes on down, they jump out like dis!"

Several hundred pounds of muscle, scales and teeth were launched at the two Witnesses. Paul shrieked and dropped the flashlight. In what must have been pure muscle memory from high school, John swung the tire iron. It connected with Killer Croc's snout. Three teeth shattered.

"Run! Shit on the flashlight and run!" John yelled.

Paul needed no encouragement. He and John sprinted for the tiny spot of light that marked the entrance to the tunnel. With a roar that could have sent even the fiercest lion scurrying for cover, Killer Croc took up the chase.

With a mouthful of death behind them and that little circle of light growing painfully slowly, John and Paul couldn't help but consider their mortality. Had they lived fruitful lives? Were their wills in order? Did either of them have relatives capable of giving a tearful and beautiful eulogy? Did life insurance cover horrific mauling and consumption by cannibalistic crocodiles?

Half way between the drain's entrance and Killer Croc's subterranean lake, the slick mud coating the floor got the better of John. He took a spectacular spill, spinning out like a racecar. Paul was oblivious of this disaster until he heard John's pathetic shriek.

There was just enough light for Paul to see the massive shape of the deformed killer grab his struggling friend by the ankle. With all the effort it took a man to lift a pillow, Killer Croc dangled John upside down. By now, John's screams had melted into noises normally heard coming from a kitten.

"Gotcha. I know people think crocs are slow, but we ain't. Now you gonna pay for breakin' my choppers." Killer Croc growled.

John closed his eyes and prayed the first bite killed him. Then he wondered if maybe he should pray to avoid any major mutilation. He didn't want the undertaker to have to sew his entire upper half back on, or for his octogenarian grandmother to know her favorite grandson was stitched together like an abused doll in his coffin. Was it too much to ask to die quickly, yet remain mostly intact? Should be bother trying to ask God?

It took John quite some time before he realized he wasn't being torn to bloody pieces. He opened his eyes and came face to face with Paul's knees. Instead of trying to save his own butt, Paul must have come back to help him. What kind of an idiot was he? Did Paul want to end up filleted as well?

"Let him go! Drop him right now! Damn it! Damn you!" Paul shouted. He kicked at the hulking crocodile, aiming for the groin.

Like another famous green fellow who enjoyed mindless smashing and grunted nightmarishly bad English, Killer Croc wore limited clothing. His tattered shorts should have offered no protection. So why was he just grinning, teeth poking out every which way while Paul's foot was beginning to get sore?

"Ya can do that sun up to sun down and it ain't gonna bother me none. The old jewels are safe." Killer Croc said.

"Huh?" Was all Paul could say.

"Ya ain't the brightest in ya family, are ya? Cause if ya are, I feel bad for the dummy. People let it all hang loose. Crocs don't." Killer Croc explained.

"Oh damn it." Paul muttered.

"Got that right. Now get the hell out of here!" Killer Croc swung his muscular tail at Paul's stupefied form. It crashed into his chest with the force of a wrecking ball. Paul found himself airborne for a brief second before falling victim to gravity.

Paul wished he had Catwoman's reflexes. Since he didn't, he came down in a heap, scratching his palms into raw hamburger. His knees suffered a similar fate. At least he had avoided a head wound for today.

"Paul! Jesus Christ, Paul!" John yelled. Seeing his friend tossed made him forget about his own deathly predicament.

Though it wasn't easy, Paul forced himself back to his feet. While flying through the air, he had noticed something. John still had the tire iron. It was useless to him, hung upside down like that. All he could do was whale on Croc's protected shins. Paul, however, could reach higher. Maybe he could perform a little emergency dental work.

"Hey, handbag! Yeah, you! Do you want to be made into some fancy boots when you die?" Paul yelled. He forced his voice to stay strong and his feet to move forward. Was he committing suicide? Likely. Was he going to die being a pain in Killer Croc's ass? If God willed it.

Killer Croc growled. Every instinct Paul possessed ordered him to either run or pee on himself. He did neither. He walked forward, shouting leather-related insults, until he was sure John could send him the tire iron with a soft pitch.

"John, the tire iron!" Paul yelled.

John realized he was still clutching his weapon. He saw Paul's open hands and tossed it to him.

Crocodiles might be fast, but they weren't all that smart. By the time Killer Croc caught wind of what had happened, he had caught the tire iron in the mouth. The damage was ghastly. He lost nearly a dozen teeth. This time the pain of his splintering teeth couldn't be ignored.

John was flung down. Killer Croc grabbed his wounded jaw and howled. John was on his feet and bolting for the exit in a nanosecond.

Paul and John burst from the drain pipe. Nearly crazed with panic, they scrambled up the bank on their hands and knees. By the time they collapsed on the grass at the top of the hill, they were both soaked with sweat and caked in mud.

They were greeted with a cop car, an ambulance, and a crowd of beady-eyed onlookers. Someone had called 911 after all. They had just failed to report John and Paul's little quest down the drain.

"What in the hell happened to you two? You look like Swamp Thing." The cop said.

"We almost got eaten!" Paul wailed. He slumped down on the curb.

"I want to lodge a formal complaint against Killer Croc! Take me down to the station so I can fill out the forms!" John demanded.

The cop looked at the two filthy Jehovah's Witnesses. "Killer Croc? Isn't he supposed to be an urban legend?"

"He's real. If you want, go stick your head down in that pipe. He'll bite it off." Paul said.

"I'll take your word for it." The cop said.

Paul and John gave sworn statements about how they had nearly been mangled. Then they got a first class ride to Gotham General Hospital. Just as the ambulance doors were swinging shut, John watched a tow truck drag his rental away.

"You know something, Paul?" John said.

"What?"

"I think this is going to kill us."


	6. The Ventriloquist

I cry the pardon of anyone waiting for this! Honestly, I get down on my knees before you all. I was in Washington DC for five glorious days. Glorious, except for the lack of Internet. I promise the next chapter won't take any where near as long. Please, please, forgive me.

I've taken note that several reviewers have been kind enough to correct me on the beliefs of Jehovah's Witnesses. To those who have done it respectfully, _muchas gracias_.

Yeah, I know in the comics The Ventriloquist is dead. He's just a lot more fun to write when he's alive.

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Adrenaline was quite a bit like any high-caffeine energy drink, Paul was discovering. For a while, you were a rocket. Why, a seven and a half foot tall crocodile-man could smash you with his tail, and you'd be up in no time. You'd even have the strength, or the stupidity, to take a tire iron to the scaly bugger. Then, once your body burned through the chemicals, a long, hard crash was inevitable. That descent into pain and lethargy was well under way.

One minute Paul had been animated, telling a shocked paramedic how he and John barely escaped Killer Croc with their lives. The next minute, he wasn't even able to sit. His ribs, which had kindly taken the brunt of Killer Croc's tail so his soft organs didn't have to, began to wail and bemoan their mistreatment. His hands, skinned in the rough landing, added their own little snide remarks. His bloody knees had some sort of competitive relationship with his hands; once the hands began to complain, the knees had to outdo them.

"Hey, buddy, are you all right? Should I get you some oxygen? Are you going to pass out on me?" the paramedic asked.

"All of a sudden, everything hurts. Can I have morphine or something?" Paul said.

"Morphine? I don't think so. We normally reserve that for people with bones sticking out like in that _No Country For Old Men_ movie." the paramedic said. "I can give you some Tylenol, though."

"Only Tylenol? I don't have a headache; I was attacked by Godzilla!" Paul exclaimed.

"Extra-strength Tylenol?"

By the time the ambulance arrived at Gotham General, Paul had been reduced to a quivering mass in a ruined suit. He was beginning to wonder if his ribs might not be in numerous pieces, each one digging at his insides. Though he wasn't a vengeful person, he wanted to see Killer Croc killed, smoked, and made into little sticks of gator jerky.

To Paul's great amusement, the same nurse who had belittled the Scarecrow as a villain was on shift again. As the paramedics wheeled Paul into the ER, he waved at the nurse. It hurt his ribs. With a sad moan, the Jehovah's Witness curled in on himself.

"What did you do to yourself this time?" The nurse asked.

"I fought with Killer Croc. It came to a draw, if anyone asks." Paul said.

While Paul was transported off to have his torso x-rayed, John supposed he had to find something to do with himself. He didn't think he had sustained a single scratch, despite the car crash, disastrous tumble in the tunnel, and the subsequent near-death experience. Not even Bruce Willis could do all that in a movie and come off so cleanly.

"You're sure you don't want a doctor to at least check you out?" The nurse asked. Where was her sympathy when those monkeys had been crawling over everything and his mental state had been in crisis mode?

"Not unless that doctor is a fiery redhead named Pammy. I don't want anyone else to check me out." John said. It was the closest thing to innuendo he had said in a very long while. He wasn't ashamed.

The nurse shrugged and went to examine a woman who had gotten in a fight with a food processor and had come off the loser. John took the same seat he occupied only a few days ago. Without the obscenely human monkeys to keep him distracted, he noticed just how miserable of a place the waiting room was. John supposed Purgatory, if it existed, probably looked exactly like this. Anyone patient enough to _putz_ around with six-month old magazines and the antiseptic smell for a few hundred years deserved to go the Heaven.

"Mom, that guy's filthy. Is he a hobo?"

John looked over to see a kid staring at him. The girl couldn't have been more than five years old. Her legs, dangling off the chair, didn't even come close to reaching the floor. There didn't appear to be anything wrong with her, asides from her lack of tact.

The girl's mother looked over. She was obviously the reason for the ER trip; her face had swollen to the point her eyes had disappeared. She must have had a severe allergic reaction to something.

"Leave him alone, Emily. It isn't nice to stare." The mother said.

Emily didn't obey. Instead, she fixed her peepers in an unblinking stare. John began to feel like some germ under scrutiny in a Petri dish. He almost wished Two-Face would be dragged in, kicking and screaming. He could just imagine how the little girl would stare at _him_.

Like most kids her age, Emily had the attention span of a hyperactive gerbil. She soon forgot about John and began to watch other injured and ill folk. In no time she was staring at a man who looked old enough to have fought at the Battle of Yorktown.

With absolutely nothing better to do, John picked up one of the outdated magazines. It was some sort of technology catalogue. Its main article was about how, in the near future, the line between man and robot would blur. Somehow, those unclear lines would create the android version of PETA. A small group of concerned citizens were all ready forming PETR: People for the Ethical Treatment of Robots. John wondered what the world was coming to.

While John was immersed in a story about a Canadian who had built a female robot capable of berating anyone who touched her breasts, a small, balding man having hysterics ran into the ER. His sobs drew the attention of everyone, especially curious Emily.

The strange little man collapsed onto his knees. Two nurses ran over to him. He continued to weep as the pair of women tried to help him stand.

"Please, help my friend. Help." The man said. It was then that he revealed a tightly wrapped bundle he had been clutching to his chest. The Scarecrow's Number One Fan gently accepted the blanket-wrapped bundle.

The nurse unwrapped the blanket, expecting a baby. To her horror, a head fell out. It rolled across the floor.

For a moment, all activity in the emergency room stopped. It was as though a mortar shell had exploded, leaving everyone shocked stupid.

The silence lasted for less than five seconds. Pandemonium followed at its heels. The ER cleared out faster than a restaurant revealed to be run by Hannibal Lecter. Still holding the blanket, the nurse threw back her head and shrieked like a horror movie vixen. John scrambled for the exit. He didn't get far. In the most vile pratfall in human history, John stumbled over the rolled head.

John fell flat on the floor. He discovered he was staring the severed head right in the eyes. The eyes were glaring. John felt his heart fall out the bottom of his shoes.

"Boss! Oh, Jeepers, boss. Here, let me help you." the little man cried. He grabbed the head and tugged the blanket from the catatonic nurse. He wrapped the morbid bundle tighter.

"See what I said? My boss has gone to pieces. I didn't mean it as a pun, Mr. Scarface, honestly. I'd never make jokes at your expense. Not in my life, boss."

Something was screwy here, John began to realize. It wasn't that he had tripped over a disembodied head; that was far beyond screwy. It was the lack of blood. Flipping through TV channels, John had come across a few slasher movie decapitations and Tarantino horror shows. When your head came off, a fountain of blood normally accompanied it. There was not a spot of gore on the floor, blanket, or the man's hands.

John got to his feet. "Can I see your, uh, boss? Just for a second."

The man looked nervously from the bundle in his hands to John, and back again. After a moment's consideration, he pulled back the blanket.

"For the love of Jehovah! It's a puppet. Oh my God. I almost had a heart attack over a puppet." John said. Some dark primitive urge wanted to pummel the obviously unbalanced fellow just for scaring him so badly.

"A puppet? He's not a puppet. He's my boss! He's a genius, the best in the business. Don't you insult him." the man yelled.

The nurse came out of her shocked state. "Wait a second. Are you telling me we just had a stampede over a _dummy_?"

"He's not a dummy and he's not a puppet! He's hurt and he needs some medical attention right now! Don't get him angry, please. You really don't want to do that. My boss has a bad temper. Don't make him show you. Just help him."

"Look, buddy. I don't know what you've been smoking, but thanks to you, I've got to round up an entire ER. I was supposed to get off shift in 20 minutes; now I'll be here longer. What you need to do is return that to whatever toy store you bought it from." The nurse said.

"Don't say that about the boss, lady. He'll make me do terrible things and I don't want to do them. He just needs some help. I don't have the nerves for surgery; I tried. I passed out."

"We don't treat puppet cancer, puppet colitis, puppet scarlet fever, or puppet cholera. I went to medical school for years, and not once did I take a class in puppet anatomy. I can't help you. No one here can help you. Maybe the doctors at Arkham can, but I can't."

John could tell this wasn't going to end nicely. The man was short and looked to be in his 60's, but there was something dangerously wrong with him. It wasn't just that he was acting as though the doll was a human. He honestly believed it was dangerous, that it could hurt people if it wanted to. John was pretty sure the dummy wasn't going to spring to life like Chucky the killer doll, but its human cohort was crazy.

"I'm not a doctor or anything, but I do know basic first aid. I took a CPR class a few years ago. Can I maybe help your friend?" John offered.

The man held out his beloved puppet. John gingerly accepted it. He spread the blanket out on the floor and laid the rather ugly marionette on top of it.

"Are you this, um, your boss's next of kin? You know, in case he passes on." John asked. Judging by his first preliminary glance, he had more chance of putting Humpty Dumpty together than repairing the puppet. Its limbs had all been torn off, one hand had suffered the loss of most of its fingers, and the head was on its own.

"I'm all Mr. Scarface has. He's all I have, too. Without him, I don't have any motivation. If he dies, I don't know what I'll do. I'll have to start talking to sock puppets!" The man wailed.

John picked up one tiny wooden arm. "Wow. What happened to Mr. Scarface? Did a bulldog get hold of him?"

"No. My boss wanted to play poker with the Joker. I don't know why; that clown cheats. He stuffs aces up his sleeves. I kept trying to tell him this, but Mr. Scarface didn't care. He said, 'Arnie, I'm going to clean that _cafone _out. Let him cheat! The better man will win."

"So your name's Arnold? I'm going to take a wild leap here, all right Arnie? Your boss beat the Joker fair and square, and the Joker tore his arms off and threw them around the room?" John said.

"Actually, the Joker beat my boss without needing to pull any tricks. Mr. Scarface didn't think it was fair. Like I warned, he has a temper. He smacked the Joker, threw his cards out the window, and tried to drink his booze. The Joker grabbed my boss, stuffed him down the toilet, and then used the plunger on him. Luckily, the toilet backed up. The Joker then tried to stick him down the garbage disposal. That's what happened to his hand." Arnold explained.

"How did his head come off?" John asked.

"The Joker and his girl played tug-of-war with him. He broke like a wishbone. My poor boss's head popped right off! The Joker was going to play baseball with the head, but I grabbed the pieces and ran. I think they're done playing cards for a while." Arnold said.

"You mean Harley and the Joker pulled apart your boss _after he was in the toilet_? How unclean. Should I boil him or something before uh, surgery?" John asked.

The nurse sighed. She knew it was a waste of medical equipment, but she supposed offering her help would get the deranged man and his freaky little doll out of the hospital. She doubted if any of the patients would want to return until he was gone, anyway.

"I'll go find you some rubber gloves and gauze, all right? You can tie him together until Arnold can get him to a professional." The nurse offered.

She returned with two pairs of rubber gloves, a long roll of gauze, and several large bandages. The nurse put on a pair of latex gloves and handed the other pair to John. With the risk of toilet-transmitted diseases minimized, John and the nurse began to reassemble Scarface.

John held the dummy's arms in place while the nurse wrapped layers of gauze around its entire torso. Scarface was soon wrapped up like a mummy. Arnold paced as nervously as an expectant father, biting his nails and whimpering.

"I think I can pop the head back on. Yeah, hold him still." John said. He held Scarface's head and pushed down. With a resounding _pop_, the dummy's decapitation was reversed.

"I'm no miracle worker, but he looks a lot better. At least all his parts are here, and those bandages hide his hand. I'm sure a little woodwork and he'll be as good as new." John said. He handed the puppet back to Arnold.

It turned out to be a grave mistake. Ideally, John should have taken the gangster puppet and tossed it into the hospital incinerator, where it would burn along with the day's tumors and liposuction wastes. By reuniting the master and his puppet, John unwittingly opened up Pandora's Box.

Scarface, dressed in the pinstripe style of a 1920's outlaw, twitched to life. He turned his cold, painted eyes directly upon John's face. The Jehovah's Witness felt the skin on his neck and arms positively writhe. He wasn't just looking at some well-done, mass-manufactured toy; John was sure he had just encountered a demon.

"What in the hell's wrong with you, you piker? I got stuffed down a john and all you did was stand there and stew!" Scarface yelled.

Arnold Wesker cringed away from his own hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Scarface. I tried to help, I really did. The Joker scares me, though."

"That clown scares you? Oh, boo-hoo! I'll give you something to get weepy over." Scarface said.

Even compared to Two-Face's two faces, this was a serious personality disorder. The Ventriloquist punched himself in the face repeatedly, using the same hand that also gave his dummy motivation. Knocking a wooden puppet against one's head wasn't a very good idea, especially if that puppet was shouting curses the whole time.

"I think I'll go get security. And a sedative for this maniac." The nurse said. She backed away in a manner that suggested she had accidently stumbled upon a spitting cobra and was trying to avoid the venom.

John wanted to beg her not to leave him alone, but had just enough willpower to avoid crawling and puling. Someone had to stay with Arnold. If the puppet decided it had punished him enough, it might go rampaging through the hospital. John could just imagine the little gangster popping up on some sick child's bed and scaring the kid into a lifetime of therapy.

Pinocchio's evil twin slapped, kicked, swore, and called Wesker several ethnic slurs that did not pertain to him. The man blubbered, crying apologies to his psychotic boss. It was like _Sesame Street_ coupled with _Fight Club_.

This had to stop, and soon. The Ventriloquist had beaten himself bloody. His glasses had been knocked off and one lens had been shattered by a puppet head-butt. The whimpering was the worst part, though. A grown man, obviously given over completely to a powerful psychosis, was allowing a toy to kick his ass.

John did the only thing that seemed sensible. He calmly walked over to the foul-mouthed puppet and plucked it off the Ventriloquist's hand. Arnold Wesker reacted like a mother bear who finds her cubs in danger.

Though he was much shorter and decades older, the insane puppeteer threw himself at John. The impact drove the shocked Jehovah's Witness to the floor. All the air was forced from his lungs.

"Give him back to me, you dirty thief! Hold on, Mr. Scarface. Let go, damn it!" The Ventriloquist snarled. He grabbed hold of the puppet and pulled.

For someone who looked like a mild-mannered grandpa, Arnold Wesker was surprisingly strong. John honestly didn't think he'd be able to keep the man from his controlling puppet for very long. If that nurse didn't get back with security and a heavy dose of tranquilizer in the next minute, there was going to be one ugly puppet show taking place.

People, or puppets, who have recently undergone surgery should avoid roller coasters, heavy lifting, and being involved in violent tug-of-war games. Unfortunately, neither the Ventriloquist nor John was paying much attention to Scarface's delicate condition. They were too busy yanking and shouting at each other.

The nurse's fine handiwork with the bandages and gauze couldn't withstand the pressure anymore. Scarface's arms left his body; the Ventriloquist was left holding them. John got the torso and one leg. The other leg simply fell off and laid there.

"Ew!" John said. He tossed the mangled puppet across the ER. It slid into an overturned chair.

"BOSS!" Wesker shouted. He scurried across the room, still clutching the wooden arms. He scooped up the wrecked puppet.

"Mr. Scarface, speak to me!" The Ventriloquist cried.

"Get over there and whack him! What's the matter with you?" The puppet said.

John was back on his feet. He looked at the Ventriloquist and his demonic companion warily. That puppet was in four pieces, though it wasn't enough. It was still giving orders. Wesker's damaged brain was still able to throw the worst of his personality into the wooden thug.

"I don't want to fight you. Either of you. Really, I'm pretty much a pacifist." John said.

"I don't care if you're John Dillinger! You ain't getting away with tearing me apart!" Scarface said.

Security arrived just in time to see John punt Scarface's head like a football. The block of wood went sailing through the air and hit the wall hard enough to break the puppet's nose off. The Ventriloquist, gibbering like an angry chipmunk, chased the rolling head.

"What in the name of God is going on here?" One of the security guards asked.

John, panting, disheveled, and bloody, pointed at the head. "Somebody grab it!"

"Huh?"

"Why is there a head on the floor?"

"What happened to your face?"

John shook his head. "Questions later, please! I'm playing keep-away with a maniac right now. Please, don't let that guy get the head."

A guard large enough to tussle with the Bigfoot monster truck calmly picked up Scarface's head. The Ventriloquist, in his mad attempt to collect his boss's increasing number of pieces, slammed into him. It was akin to throwing dandelion fluff at a brick wall.

Arnold Wesker ended up on his back and began flailing like an overturned turtle. Another security officer picked him up and neatly slapped a pair of hand cuffs on him.

"This is some pretty weird shit, if you'll pardon my French. Do either of you have an explanation?" The guard holding the dummy's head asked.

"That guy is insane. He thinks his puppet is alive. I think he broke my nose over it. Damn it." John said.

The Ventriloquist squirmed around. "I want my boss back. Really, Mr. Scarface is my responsibility."

"Ok. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get the police down here so they can get you off of hospital property. As for Mr. Scarface- by Jesus he's ugly- I'm going to keep him as evidence. Someone want to find this thing's arms?"

The police arrived a few minutes later. The Ventriloquist was dragged out by two officers. As soon as he was safely tucked away in a squad car, most of the patients who had fled were led back into the ER by the nurse. She was now earning overtime, and decided to stay long enough to hear what was bound to be a tale exclusive to Gotham.

John, his nose still bleeding from a particularly lucky punch, was slouched on a chair. His head was titled backwards.

"No! That's not the proper way to take care of a nosebleed. All the blood's going down into your stomach. I wish school nurses had one ounce of sense. Lean forward and apply pressure. Just use your shirt; it's ruined all ready." The nurse said.

While John's muddy suit was stained further with red, the nurse took a seat next to him. Strangely enough, half of the ER did the same. Little Emily was a prominent, wide-eyed face in the crowd.

"I guess you all want to know about Puppet-Head, huh? Ok. Just don't make fun of me for beating up an old man. He really isn't as innocent as he looks." John said.

"He's older than _God_." Emily said.

"Hush. I'm older than he is. How does that make me feel?" The man from the Battle of Yorktown asked.

John forced laughter. He liked preaching in people's living rooms, with a small family and with Paul. If he was forced to speak in front of more than a dozen people, he was prone to sweat profusely and turn unnaturally pale. He was a Bible-scholar, not a master of the anecdote.

"All right. I guess I should start with the basics. My name is John, and I've had an interesting two weeks. And something tells me it's only going to get weirder."

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Ok. Once again, sorry that took so long. A trip coupled with writer's block led to a terribly long wait. I think this chapter may have been the story's midlife crisis. I'm pretty sure I can see the how most of it pans out now, though.

As for Scarface, some of the words he uses are 1920's gangster-speak. Just so you know. And to any fans of the TV show _Angel_, you may recognize the 'puppet cancer'. Lastly, the Canadian building the lady-robot is totally true.


	7. Clayface

What can I say? This was _not_ faster. I honestly did try. I'm just bogged down by an obscene amount of work in college. I can't wait for Spring Break. Anyway, I have failed you all. So sorry!

Thanks to all my reviewers. I only aim to entertain, and it looks like I may be decent at it. I'm joyous!

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John recounted his entire tale, from first stumbling into the Joker's hideout more than two weeks ago to going twelve rounds with an old man and his dummy. He was interrupted by Emily so many times he'd need a tally sheet to keep track. Some of the girl's comments included, "I think Harley's _pretty_." and "Why didn't you just buy a gun? My daddy has a gun, and my neighbor had a whole lot of guns. Then the police came and took him away."

By the time John was explaining gun laws in terms a kindergartener could understand, Paul was finished filling out forms and signing on dotted lines. His ribs weren't broken, merely bruised. Despite his initial skepticism, that Extra-Strength Tylenol really had helped dull the pain. He had taken four times the recommended dosage, but he wasn't dying in a puddle of his own vomit. The risk had been worth it.

"Right, Paul, like I said before. Don't stress yourself. No heavy exercise, lifting, and no more brawling with whatever did this to you. Oh yeah, and don't get crazy with the Tylenol any more. You'll end up like Elvis." The doctor said.

"Fat and rich?" Paul asked.

"Dead on the toilet." The doctor replied.

"Oh."

Paul and his doctor shook hands and wished each other long and pleasant lives. With his paperwork in order and the doctor's final instructions given, Paul hobbled out into the waiting room. He couldn't quite manage a normal walk, since his knees had been bandaged and his tired feet felt swollen to twice their normal size.

Where was John? There was a crowd of people circled around, but John couldn't be there. He honestly wasn't one for large gatherings or for being the center of attention. Maybe he had gone off to find a vending machine. Paul always thought it was a little ironic how hospitals dispensed such unhealthy, sugary foods, but he would roll over and let someone pet his tummy if they would feed him chocolate right about now. If John really had gone off to find something sweet, perhaps he would be Christian enough to share.

"I am a Jehovah's Witness. That's a religious guy, all right? I was never in the army, I was never a terrorist, and I wasn't one of those kids who wants to blow up his school. I don't know how to make explosives. That's why I didn't just blow up Killer Croc. Well, that and causing explosions in a tunnel is just asking for trouble. I had a distant relative killed in a mine collapse in the 1840's. Don't want to follow in his footsteps." John said.

Jumping Jehovah on a pogo stick. It _was _John surrounded by all those people. Paul took a quick scan on the little coven. A nurse was parked in the chair next to John. Unless Paul was mistaken, it was the Scarecrow's secret admirer. A very young blonde girl was sitting on the floor next to John's chair and staring at him. A woman with a hugely swollen face sat next to the girl. A dinosaur old enough to be Agnes's grandfather was leaning on his cane and listening intently. Several other men and women were also gathered around.

"John, what are you doing?" Paul asked.

"Explaining exploding crocodiles." John said.

"Yeah, he told us how he met the Joker, and if Harley wasn't so crazy she could be your girlfriend. And then he said he saw this guy who dressed up like a scarecrow, and his name was Scarecrow, so I guess that's why he dresses like that. And then there was, um, Poison Girl or Scratchy Plant. I can't remember. But I remember the next guy. He was Killer Croc, and he needs to see a dentist 'cause you broke all his teeth. And you were getting your butt in a cast or something, so you missed the Vent, uh, Vinnie-" Emily said.

"The Ventriloquist. I was pretty busy while you were getting patched up. I actually fended off a super villain. I'm like Batman." John said.

Paul stared. "You. Fought off. A villain. In an actual physical fight. How in the name of Jehovah did you pull that one off?"

"The puppet guy, he's _old_. Like my grandpa. He probably has false teeth and forgets where he puts them at night. Mr. John beat him to a pulp. Smash! Crush! My hip!" Emily said. She kindly demonstrated each exclamation by punching the air and making fighter-jet noises.

John moaned and lowered his head into his hands. There went his glory. When the villain happened to be a senior citizen, and psychotic to boot, you turned into a jerk rather than a hero. Why were children such blessed pains in the rear?

"Can we leave, Paul? I'm all out of stories. And I want to go home and stick my face in a basin of ice-water." John said.

"Uh, sure. It's just that, well, we have no transportation. It'll be noon tomorrow by the time we get home if we have to walk. Not to sound like a wimp, but I don't think I could walk to the end of the parking lot without collapsing." Paul said.

John snapped his fingers. "We can ride the bus. I know one stops at the hospital. I saw it go by two or three times."

Paul sighed. "Great, but I don't think the bus driver's going to take us anywhere for free. I don't know about you, but I left my wallet in your car. Your car could be in hell for all I know."

"I've got some nickels. Oh, and a dime. Nope, that's another nickel."

"You can have my change. I have _way_ too much of it."

"I have change, I hope."

"Does the bus take pennies? I've got like six pounds of them."

With the help of John's faithful audience, the Jehovah's Witnesses left with several dollars of loose change jangling in their pockets. John thanked them all for their generosity, and for listening to his tale of adventure, woe, and general oddness.

"Good luck, Mr. John and Mr. Paul! When you meet Catwoman, tell her I said 'hi'." Emily called after them.

The sun was setting. There went another perfectly miserable day. Both John and Paul were bruised, exhausted and so helplessly dirty they'd have no choice but to throw out their suits. All either of them wanted was a shower and then 20 years of sleep.

A bus pulled up five minutes later. John and Paul boarded, saw the fare was a dollar, and counted out an assortment of dimes and quarters. The driver, noticing just how filthy his two newest passengers were, gave them a modern version of the Evil Eye. If they tracked mud all over his bus, he was going to knock their heads together.

The bus was nearly empty. A teenager with headphones jammed into his ears was sitting at the front of the bus. The way his head was bobbing suggested he was either having a _grand mal_ seizure or listening to heavy metal. Two Hispanic women sat toward the middle of the bus and chatted to each other in Spanish. A scruffy man in paint-stained overalls was a few seats behind the women. Near the back, a middle-aged man was reading a novel.

John and Paul sat at the very back of the bus. Since grade school, both of them had always been most comfortable at the back of a bus. Maybe it was because they had a clear view of all the passengers as they boarded. Maybe it was because the emergency exit was so near. Neither of them really bothered to psycho-analyze their seating preferences.

Someone had kindly left a copy of _The Gotham Times_ on Paul's seat. Other passengers had obviously rifled through it during the day. A photograph of the mayor on the front page had been defaced by a black Magic Marker moustache. The comics were missing. Paul sighed. He really wanted to read the _Family Circus_.

Paul disappeared behind the business section. He took careful note of all the red, downward arrows on the stocks page. Financial stocks were getting dragged through the mud, and several computer companies were on the verge of collapsing in an explosion of microchips and circuit boards.

"Can I have the entertainment section? I want to read about that new movie." John said.

"New movie? The one with the Nazis?" Paul asked as he searched for the right pages.

"No. The documentary about the guy who kayaked to the North Pole. I heard it was nominated for a-. Hold on a second. Wasn't there just a man sitting there?" John asked.

Paul lowered the paper. "Where? I wasn't really paying attention."

The man who had been reading a book was gone. In his seat was a scantily clad blonde woman. She looked like the kind of lady who flashed her wares on the street corners once the sun went down.

"I know there wasn't a hooker on the bus. I would have noticed anyone exposing that much of herself." John said.

"If I wasn't so tired, I kindly suggest she invest in a bra. However, I don't seem to have the energy." Paul said.

John frowned. It wasn't her outfit, if two simple stripes of cloth could be called an outfit, that bothered him. It was her sudden appearance. There was no way he had noticed every relatively normal passenger and missed the modern Whore of Babylon. Unless she had been hiding under a seat, he should have seen her.

Paul passed his friend the entertainment section. For some reason, he couldn't force himself to focus on the review. John felt his eyes continually drawn to the magical prostitute.

The blonde suddenly whipped her head around. "What're _you_ lookin' at? See something you like?"

John recoiled as though slapped. "_No_! Ma'am, I, uh, no." The Jehovah's Witness blushed furiously and swung the newspaper up to serve as a shield.

To make it even worse, Paul was nearly choking on repressed laughter. "Don't do it, John. It's a sin against God and it's illegal, too."

"Shut up."

The bus came to a stop and the doors opened. John didn't dare lower his paper until it started rolling again. Then, ever so surreptitiously, he peeked over. To his immense relief, the lady of the night was gone.

"She's off to another hard night's work." Paul commented. John groaned.

The hooker had gotten off, but another passenger had chosen the exact same seat. Maybe their was some sort of magnetism there. Or maybe it was the cleanest seat, the only one that hadn't been gouged by an antisocial teenager with a pocket-knife.

The man who replaced the hooker had hair the color and gloss of crow feathers. Though John couldn't see his face, he was quite sure the man was handsome. It was a good thing the prostitute had departed without meeting this gentlemen. Some money, and body fluids, might have ended up getting exchanged.

"When exactly are _we_ going to be getting off? I've never ridden from Gotham General before." John said.

"Back before I got my car, and before I met you, for that matter, I used to ride the buses everywhere. I got beaten up for trying to hand out literature to the wrong men, but that's not important. This is the Red Line. We'll ride it downtown, then hop on the Black Line. There's a bus stop three blocks from my house. You know, right by the little all night market that Korean guy runs." Paul said.

"Great. But what am I supposed to do? I don't live anywhere near you." John said.

"Stay on the bus. I'm pretty sure it passes not far from your apartment. Either that, or you can sleep on the couch. _Mi sofa es tu sofa_. And that's the actual proper Spanish." Paul replied.

John sighed. Two choices. Sleep-over on Paul's couch, or getting lost and ride the bus all the way back to the depot. John wished he had paid more attention to the bus lines. He had been spoiled by having private transportation.

"You don't mind letting me have the sofa?" John asked.

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I did. It'll be good to have decent company. That peace lily's nice and all, but it's not much for conversation." Paul said.

"Ah, Pammy. Sure, I'll stay over." John said.

Satisfied that he wouldn't have to spend another night explaining religion to a flower, Paul went back to his paper. John was about to do the same when his eye was once again drawn to oft-exchanged seat.

The man with black hair was gone. An elderly black woman had taken his place. The funny thing was _the bus hadn't stopped_. There had been no opportunity for the old woman to get on, or for the man to get off. It was as though one had disappeared and the other had dropped from the sky.

"Something's wrong here! Paul, there's a black woman sitting there!" John exclaimed.

The entire bus population, except for the kid with headphones, turned around to see what John was talking about. The Hispanic women probably couldn't understand him, but the urgent tone in his voice caught their attention.

"Where? That's not even a woman, let alone black. Are you a little loopy or something?" The painter asked from the middle of the bus.

John couldn't believe his eyes. The black-haired man was back. Worse yet, he was turned around and giving John the kind of look the Joker was used to receiving.

"No. I, I was in a car accident today. I'm just a little confused, I guess. Ignore me." John said.

"John?" Paul asked with hesitation.

"It must be stress. I had a hell of a day, as you well know. Maybe the Ventriloquist hit me harder than I thought. It was just one crazy little fluke. I'm fine. Really. All I need is some sleep. Maybe a cup of tea." John said.

"All right. If you start, uh, having an episode, don't be afraid to tell me." Paul said. With obvious reluctance, he returned to a story about failing restaurants saved by a raving British chef.

Jesus Christ, God in Heaven. Now it was neither a black woman nor an annoyed white man. In fact, it was someone who had probably never been forced to ride a bus in his life. Bruce Wayne, in a suit that probably cost more than the gross domestic product of some small countries, was sitting just feet away.

All the blood drained from John's face so quickly he felt dizzy. There was no way his eyes were telling the truth. He was hallucinating, suffering a stroke, dying even.

Bruce Wayne turned and met John's eyes. He smirked and gave the Jehovah's Witness a little wave.

"Paul. Paul. I think I'm having that episode." John whispered.

"What? Did you say something?" Paul asked.

"Buddy, would you mind looking somewhere else? Those bugged-out eyes are getting to me." The man said.

John's spine turned into a liquid. He slid off his seat, his knees striking the floor. His head tilted back and he began to emit a noise like Chewbacca's growl.

"Snap out of it, John!" Paul cried. John continued to moan, his head lolling.

Unsure of what else to do, Paul slapped John across the face. It wasn't a powerful blow, but it was strong enough to smart. The sting was enough to bring John back to some semblance of his senses.

"I want to get off the bus. Paul, I don't care where we are. I can't stay on this bus any longer!" John said.

"Ok. Here's what we'll do. First, you have to get off the floor. The bus driver looks like he's ready to come back here and take a crowbar to you. Just sit here, nice and safe, right next to me, until the next stop. We'll get off then. Deep breaths, John. You can do it." Paul said.

John hoisted himself from the floor and back into his seat. To his great horror and embarrassment, all the bus was once again watching him warily. Bruce Wayne, had, of course, morphed back into the average bus patron.

"Mind your own damned business! I'm losing my mind here! _Muy loco_! Look out the windows or something." John snapped. He wasn't sure where the burst of anger came from. Wild, swinging emotions was a sign of manic-depression, wasn't it? Christ, he really was going out of his gourd.

Everyone promptly stopped staring. Paul even averted his eyes, looking at the mud stains on the floor, instead.

For about a minute, everything was all right. Not great, because John still had the heartbeat of a humming bird but at least sane. Then the impossible transformation happened again.

The man who had been Wayne was now a Gotham City cop, dressed in the blue uniform and hat. It took every ounce of courage John possessed to avoid passing out or shrieking. He wanted to grab Paul, shake him until his teeth rattled, and make him see the unnatural happenings.

Of course, it wouldn't do any good. John knew it, from television and from movies. He was just the hapless, helpless star. He knew there was a killer with a machete running loose in the woods, but no one, not the police, his parents or the weird pothead all cheap horror flicks were required to have by law, believed him.

The cop changed subtly. His uniform shifted from blue to gray. His hair followed suit, slipping from sandy to salt and pepper.

"All right." John said softly, almost entirely to himself. He was stuck in a bus instead of a plane, but he still had a gremlin on the wing. It was time for some serious action. He was going to have to make the passengers, and Paul, believe him.

John got out of his seat. Paul made a grab for his suit jacket, but the muddy material slipped through his fingers.

"Excuse me, but would you mind showing your true form?" John asked.

"Don't make me deck you, friendo. I don't know what your problem is but-"

John attacked the bus passenger. It wasn't anything as defined at karate; it was more like desperate, random swatting.

Of course, all the bus was once again turned around. The bus driver was looking back, totally ignoring the road. The two Latin women looked horrified. Paul was stuck between total mortification and pity. It was obvious John had somehow developed an acute case of crazy. His sickness was likely going to end up with him in the slammer.

John was aware of something the other passengers couldn't possibly be. This guy wasn't made of normal human material. Hitting him didn't feel anything like hitting the Ventriloquist. Punching him was akin to punching a marshmallow, or one of those Swedish memory foam pillows.

The facade broke. All the features, from the clothes to the face, ran together. John stumbled down the aisle, shocked. It appeared as though the man he had been beating was in the process of melting.

"_Dios mio_!" One of the Hispanic woman cried. She made the sign of the cross.

The bus driver slammed on the brakes. During his 15 years of faithful service to Gotham's public transportation he had seen eight men strip naked for unknown reasons on his bus, had two state senators desperate for 'working class' votes hop aboard, and had one woman drop dead of a heart attack. However, he had never seen a man liquefy like some Nazi in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. And honestly, he could have lived a happier life without it.

Clayface was reasonably annoyed. He had just escaped from prison two days ago. It really wasn't a difficult task for a man who could slide down the drain. To avoid going back, he had not been publicly transforming into his mud-like state. Instead, he had taken on several perfectly human disguises. Batman would never think to look on a city bus for a shape-shifting escapee. Now, all because he had the urge to play around with one hypersensitive guy, he was going to get busted.

"Oh my God. I didn't realize it was you. Honestly, if I'd known you were Clayface, I would have let you screw with my mind all day." John said.

Paul, stuck behind the muddy monstrosity, tallied off another villain. That made three in one day. If they didn't get a break tomorrow, Paul was quite sure both he and John would end up in straightjackets. Of course, if Clayface just smashed the bus into oblivion along with the unfortunate souls inside it, nobody would have to worry about anything.

"I mean it. I've always respected you as a villain. You can be anywhere at any time. Can you imagine Two-Face trying to get lost in a crowd? Couldn't happen. You, on the other hand, can strike from anywhere. You're like a ninja." John said.

True, Clayface could blend in with any situation. He wasn't exactly a master schemer, and usually ended up just forming clobbering weapons out of his malleable hands. That didn't mean he was immune to flattery.

"Yeah?" Clayface said.

"Sure. You're a great villain. I remember that thing you did last summer. It was all over the news." John said.

"Yeah, that thing. Nice job, huh?" Clayface asked.

"It was like an action movie. They showed the bank's security camera footage. You made this big hammer out of your hand, and you just smashed that door down like it was cardboard. It was definitely impressive. I bet the other villains were jealous." John said.

Clayface shifted. "Not really. I didn't get a chance to steal any of the money before the Bat showed up. I got caught up in smashing things. I did almost hit Batman with a 500 pound safe. Flattening him would have earned me some damn respect."

John shook his head. "Can you imagine that? I believe most of the villains in this town have no class at all. Take the Joker for instance. Does he honestly think he's the first evil doer to dress up like a clown? He's not! He's about as original as plagiarism."

The passengers were obviously interested in John's conversation. He was, after all, the only thing preventing Clayface from suffering a meltdown and tearing the bus into shrapnel.

"You can take the shape of pretty much anyone, right?" John asked.

Instead of answering with words, Clayface showed off. He flashed in quick succession from blobby mud monster to the Mayor, George Washington, Jesus, and an old fellow who was either Winston Churchill or Alfred Hitchcock.

"Excellent. So, you know what you should do? Drag the other villains' names through the mud. No pun intended." John said.

"Great! Uh, what should I do?"

John said, "It's easy. Transform into one of them. Then, run through town doing terrible embarrassing things. Ruin their reputation. Put the Joker in a pink dress and have him sing gospel songs. Go to a strip club as Two-Face. Have the Mad Hatter go to the library and read _Walter the Farting Dog _to the kids. Whatever you think will be humiliating."

Clayface rubbed his hands together with evil glee. "You're clever. You aren't one of the Riddler's henchmen, are you?"

"No. I'm a Jehovah's Witness. I'm God's henchman." John replied.

Clayface shrugged. "Eh, somebody's got to do it." He extended one large, mucky hand to John. The Witness counted four fingers and no thumb. John couldn't help but stare at the misshapen paw.

"Sorry. I get lazy when I pretend to be human." A thumb sprouted out of the clay. Not wanting to cause any offense, John shook hands with the morphing villain.

Shaking hands with Clayface was like sticking your hand into quicksand. John didn't much enjoy it, but he wasn't going to say so. He kept a grin on his face the whole time.

"Well, I guess I better get busy. I want to get the Joker on the ten o'clock news." Clayface said. With that, he turned from John. He morphed his hand into a ball and smashed an enormous hole into the side of the bus. Glass and twisted bits of metal exploded onto the sidewalk.

A lanky clown in a frighteningly short pink dress jumped from the massive hole. He proceeded down the sidewalk, terrifying several pedestrians as he passed. One woman tossed three full bags of groceries and ran into traffic. She avoided a taxi by no more than six inches.

John peered out the hole into the twilight. He was considering whether he shouldn't just leap out of the bus when Paul grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him back.

"What in the hell were you thinking? We're going to die the most horrible deaths imaginable! You moron, you idiot, you liberal, you ass!" Paul shouted.

"What? I just saved us from Clayface! He isn't going to kill us. Besides, he hasn't got a whole lot of imagination." John replied.

Paul could have strangled him. "I don't give a damn about Clayface. I mean the Joker, Two-Face, the Mad Hatter! When they find out what we did, they're going to torture us to paste! Clayface isn't bright. He'll go bragging about it. All those villains know us. They'll recognize us. We're dead and it's your fault!"

"That isn't fair. The Hatter doesn't know us."

"Yet. How much longer before he does? And why does he even matter? The Joker probably knows more ways to kill than there are stars in the sky. We had enough problems. Now the villains are going to want to see us. We'll be lucky if we live to see Wednesday." Paul said.

John moaned. "Oh, Christ. What are we going to do?"

"How in the hell should I know? You've got all the plans. You figure it out."

"Let's go find Batman."

"Are you insane?" Paul asked.

"Is there honestly a better option?" John said.

"Asides from leaving the country, no."

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Author's Note:

Walter the Farting Dog is an actual book.


	8. Immoral Television

This chapter actually has no new villains in it. I'm as shocked as you are. However, the Joker and Harley make a re-appearance. Next chapter, John and Paul will meet up with some new friends. It's a little shorter than the past few chapters have been.

I want to extend a particular thanks to my reviewers. I was a little nervous about the Clayface chapter. I'm glad you all seem to like it. I do intend to have the Hatter very soon.

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The cop whistled. "Wow. Look at the size of that hole. It looks like a damn bomb went off."

The bus, and the street surrounding it, had been cordoned off with yellow tape. The passengers, as well as the driver and numerous pedestrian witnesses, were all in various states of the interview process. Several squad cars, their lights casting sheets of red and blue, created a roadblock to keep the crowd back. It was amazing just how quickly people gathered when they heard the Joker was running around in frilly items.

"So, neither of you have any ID? You both left your wallets in his rented car, which was destroyed in an accident earlier today. That's the story, huh?" A cop asked.

"Pretty much, yeah. Look, you have a file on us from earlier. We both gave statements about Killer Croc attacking us. I honestly wish I could give you my driver's license. All I can suggest it that you either call the rental agency, or give me a lift down there. I'm sure they've got the car, and I doubt if they'd just toss our wallets in the trash." John said.

The officer wrote a few lines in his notebook. "You two must have the worst damn luck in the world, you know that? I knew a guy whose car was stolen, his dog ran away, and his wife left him for a janitor, all on the same day. I never thought I'd meet a sorrier sap. Today, I met two."

"Thanks for rubbing it in, officer." Paul muttered.

"I know it sucks. I just have to look at the pair of you, and my damn heart breaks. Don't get the wrong impression about me, though. I'm going to do you guys a favor. After this mess is sorted out, I'll give you a ride home. If you want, I'll even get donuts." The cop said.

Since their bus wasn't going to be driving anyone anywhere anytime soon, John and Paul agreed to both the ride and the donuts. Upon realizing how long it had been since either of them had been properly fed, their stomachs began to growl.

The cop flipped his notebook closed and went off to find someone else to talk to. John and Paul were left sitting on the curb. The continually flashing bubble lights were beginning to plant a headache right behind Paul's eyes. It throbbed in sync with the spinning lights.

"I'm hungry." John said.

"I don't want to hear about it. You'll get donuts soon enough. You'd better enjoy them; it might be your last meal." Paul replied.

"Maybe it won't be as bad as all that." John said.

Paul snorted. "Right. And maybe Hitler was just a painter who dabbled in politics."

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With all the white powdered sugar smeared under his nose and across his lips, John resembled a crack addict on a suicidal binge. Paul had managed to restrain himself. At least he wasn't wearing a majority of his donuts.

"Take a left here. Watch out for that van. That guy couldn't parallel park to save his life." Paul said.

The cop swung his cruiser directly behind the van. He shut off the engine and stepped out of the car.

"Wait! What are you doing?" John asked.

"Calm down, you guys. Really, nobody is going to attack you, not while I'm around. I'm just going to write a citation. This damn van is obstructing half of the street and needs to be moved pronto. I think a 50 dollar fine's a damn good incentive." the cop said.

"Is 'damn' this guy's favorite word?" Paul muttered.

Asides from being an expert linguist, the cop also had the hearing of a jackrabbit. "Nope, 'damn' isn't even in the top five. My absolute favorite word would probably be 'busted', as in 'put your hands up, you've just been busted' or 'drop the gun before your head gets busted'."

"You know, I feel more comfortable all ready. I like an officer who is so fluent in the art of busting." John said.

Paul sunk into the seat and tried to become one with the upholstery. He had no idea when John turned into such a goon. It must have been while he was being x-rayed or giving insurance information.

The cop pinned a yellow ticket to the windshield of the van. Then he returned to play chauffeur for another three blocks. There were no more parking violations blatant enough to demand his attention and ticket book.

"This is the place. Thanks for the ride, officer. Come on, John." Paul said.

John started. "Wait, what? You still want me over, even though you're sure we're both going to die miserably? That's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

"Of course, John. Like I said, _mi sofa_ and all that jazz. Now, let's let the fantastic, faith-in-humanity-restoring officer get back to hunting bad guys." Paul said.

Once John and Paul were out on the sidewalk, the cop gave them a final wave. "Listen, I really think you two will be just fine. I know your luck is in the sewer, but keep your damn chins up. And, uh, keep your dock locked. You know, better safe than sorry."

Paul walked up the stairs to his door. He stuck a hand in his pocket, only to pull it out empty. "I've lost my keys. Oh hell. They're probably back in the sewer."

John was instantly on top of the problem. He stepped over a yellowing shrub and shimmied open a window. Paul was suddenly aware of how lucky he was to have never been burglarized. With all the grace of a crippled sloth, John squirmed his way through the window. He could be heard clunking through Paul's apartment until he finally found the front door.

"Nice work, John. I guess now would be a good time to tell you I keep a spare key under the welcome mat." Paul said. He flipped over the mat to reveal a silver key.

"How perfectly cliché." John said.

John wisely locked the door and the window he had crawled through. While Paul went to change into some clothes that weren't covered in an enormous amount of crud, John decided to check security. He made sure all the windows were sealed, poked around under Paul's bed, in his closet, under the kitchen sink, and behind the couch. There wasn't an insane clown lying in wait anywhere in the apartment.

Paul emerged from the bathroom in hideously plaid-pattern pajamas. He had taken a quick shower, just long enough to get the mud out of his ears and the slime from between his toes. All Paul's showers tended to be in-and-out. The old, unreliable pipes not only dripped; they also were prone to cataclysmic temperature changes. One minute the bathroom was filled with steam, the next ice cubes were pelting down and Paul was howling about it.

"You forgot to check the bathroom before I went in there. I could have been stabbed by a psychopath in his mother's dress." Paul said.

"You heard me going on patrol?" John asked.

Paul snorted. "Going on patrol? A gnome couldn't properly go on patrol in here. It's tiny. Yeah, it's bigger than the Scarecrow's, but not by much. And you've got no idea how thin these walls are. You can hear_ everything_. Did you honestly believe a villain was going to be lurking in my closet, like the Boogeyman?"

John shrugged. "Better safe than sorry."

"Out of simple curiosity, just what was your plan if the Joker was in my closet and Harley was under my sink? Were you going to hope your sobbing drove them off?" Paul asked.

This was beginning to grate on John's nerves just a little. He honestly hadn't meant to cause any trouble. There was no reason for Paul to be riding his back like an evil little whip-wielding baboon. At the very least, he could offer a suggestion or two instead of belittling everything John did.

"You know what we need to do? Find some weapons: kitchen knives, a shovel, a hammer, anything that can either stab or be swung. We have to go _Rambo_ here. Maybe we should board up the windows." John said.

Paul shook his head in disbelief. "Board up the windows? We're not fighting off zombies. Besides, my landlord will crucify me if she sees I've nailed planks of wood all over the place."

"If you're just going to tear me down, why did you even bother inviting me to stay? I could be at home with the curtains drawn and a baseball bat in my lap." John said.

"I invited you to stay for one reason. You're going to guard the door all night long. If anyone shows up to massacre us, he'll have to go through you first." Paul explained.

John smacked himself. His sole purpose in life had been reduced to serving as a human shield. He was beginning to wish he had been in a coma for the past three weeks, instead of wandering around from one torture to the next.

"That's grand. It still doesn't resolve the weapons issue. I can't protect you if I get killed before I can even raise an alarm." John said.

"I'm sure you'll manage. You can arm yourself with anything you can find. As for me, I'm going to see if Clayface's exploits made the news." Paul said. He walked away from John, leaving the Witness to steam in silence.

Paul plopped down on his sofa. He found the TV remote lodged between the cushions. Ignoring the sounds of drawers being opened from the kitchen, Paul turned on the television.

A banner reading 'Breaking News!' flashed across the bottom of the screen. Paul felt his guts twist into the shape of a balloon animal. A harried reporter, her cameraman tied up in the background, appeared on the screen.

"This is, uh, Marie Osmond with Channel 12 News. We're bringing you an exclusive interview with, uh, Hillary Quinn-"

"_Harley_! Harley Quinn! It ain't that hard a name, buttercup!"

Oh crap.

"I'm sorry! Harley Quinn. She's here to uh, comment on a certain video most of you have probably seen by now so, uh, let's go to our guest." Marie said.

The camera swung from the terrified reporter to a furious clown. Harley Quinn was positively spitting fire. Her hands were clenched, her jester's hat was lopsided, and her smile was sitting in a lost and found box somewhere in San Diego.

"Yeah, _that_ video! The one where my Puddin' is runnin' around in a dress! Well, I got some news for you. _That wasn't my Mister J_! The only dresses my Puddin' ever wears are mine, and he doesn't go showin' them off." Harley shouted into the camera.

"Thanks for the correction, Ms. Quinn. Anything else you'd like to share with Gotham tonight?" Marie asked.

"As a matter of fact, there is. Mister J is just as mad as I am about this. When he gets his hands on whoever did this, they're gonna wish they'd never been born." Harley Quinn said. "And just so everybody knows how serious he is, I've got pictures."

"Uh, Puddin, where did you put those things?"

From behind the camera, the Joker replied, "I can't quite remember, Harley. I guess you're going to have to look for them."

Most of the clown's menace melted as she poked around whatever room served as her impromptu newsroom. She looked under Marie's chair, under her own, behind a few boxes, and stuck her hand into a hole in the wall. Four strikes.

While his girlfriend poked around, the Joker dangled several sheets of paper in front of the lens. He snickered at his cruel little joke. Poor Harley could tear the room apart, and surely would, and she would never find what she was looking for.

Harley bent over to search under a table. The Joker, a hand clasped over his mouth to stifle his giggles, aimed the camera at her tightly-clad butt. He zoomed in. Zoomed out. Repeated. After running through the motions about five times, he could be heard almost gagging from the effort of suppressing his laughter.

Paul wondered how many sexual deviants with TiVo and DVRs were scrambling to record Harley's rear at this moment. No doubt the scene would be kept right next to the wardrobe malfunction from the Super Bowl a few years back. At least YouTube and teenage boys with odd fantasies would be happy.

Eventually, the Joker got tired of exploiting Harley's assets. He leapt from one joke to another, tossing the pictures on Quinn's chair.

"Harley, you nit! The pictures are on your chair; you must have been sitting on them." The Joker said.

Harley swiveled around. Wearing a sheepish grin, and surely blushing scarlet under her makeup, she scurried over to pick up the drawings.

"Sorry, Puddin'. I don't know how I didn't feel them under there." She said.

"My silly little harlequin. What _am _I going to do with you?" The killer clown asked.

With a little tweaking of the facial muscles, Harley once again took on the glower that could set a scarecrow on fire from 20 yards. "Like I said, Mister J went through a ton of effort on these. When he finds out who played a joke on the Joker, this is what they're gonna get!"

John yelped from the kitchen. Something large, maybe even the blender, crashed to the floor. Paul ignored the havoc; he had to know what the sadistic clown and his loony girlfriend had planned as revenge.

Harley grabbed a picture from her seat and pressed in to the camera's lens. Paul recoiled in horror. He had been expecting stick figures and stupid, implausible machinations. Apparently, the Joker, asides from being a murderer, abuser, mad scientist, arsonist, thief, manipulator, and general bastard, was also a closet Andy Warhol.

"Why don't you explain that to the nice folks at home?" the Joker suggested.

"'Kay, Puddin'. This is the Joker. You can tell by the green hair and the big, happy smile. Oh, and the knife, too. And this guy, he's the jerk who took Mister J's name in vain! That stuff on the ground, that's his fingers and his left ear." Harley said. She pointed to each aspect of the drawing.

The Joker was one prolific artist when he put his mind to it; he must have scribbled out two dozen drawings in two hours. Harley went through them all, describing their various tortures and grizzly details for the horrified, and doubtlessly morbidly intrigued, public.

It took Harley, with the occasional comment thrown in by the artist, ten minutes to display the entire grotesque exhibit. The Joker's colorful, imaginative, and perfectly hellish plots included: flattening by an elephant, being strapped to a comically large bomb, getting tossed to the lions at the Gotham Zoo, being yanked apart _a la _'the Hitcher', but with bumper-cars, and a thorough flattening with Harley's mallet.

John walked in, an aerosol can of non-stick cooking spray in one hand and a lighter in the other. "I made a flamethrower. You need to see this thing in action. Hey, is this a documentary on Hieronymus Bosch?"

Hieronymus Bosch, asides from being a detective in a series of novels, had been a painter famous for his various scenes of Hell and hidden owls. He was one of John's favorite artists (at least among the artists he was willing to admit admiration for).

"No, John. That's either you, or me, getting pecked to death by a flock of crows. There's road-kill stapled to us to attract them. If you'd come in thirty seconds ago, you could have gotten the explanation." Paul said.

The non-stick spray went rolling across the floor. "Oh, crap."

"My sentiments exactly."

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AN: Any fans of Michael Connelly will know where I'm coming from.


	9. The Mad Hatter

Ok. Back to the villainy!

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It was the worst night of Paul's life. He dragged his pillow and comforter from his bed and threw them on the couch. Even with the added comfort of down and Egyptian cotton, he couldn't get to sleep. The news may have had something to do with that. Paul would admit to having fallen asleep during reports of war, terrorism, tsunamis, forest fires, Supreme Court verdicts, and octuplets. However, when his own skin was on the line, he found the Sandman elusive.

John, the cooking spray and lighter in his pants pocket, a hammer in one hand, and a meat fork in the other, paced back and forth in front of the door. With all the loyalty of the British Royal Guard, he stayed at his post. Unlike the British guard, he didn't keep a stoic, impassive look on his face. He scowled, grumped, stalked, and muttered. He was too tired for this crap. Why did Paul get a nice comfortable bed- all right, nice comfortable sofa- while he was forced to stay in the trenches?

Somewhere between three and four, Paul finally drifted off. All the fear in the world couldn't perk him up any longer. He began to snore. That was too much for John. He dropped the fork and hammer, emptied his pockets, and collapsed in a heap. Even with only the carpet to serve as a pillow, John was a rock in thirty seconds.

Far outside the Gotham City limits, where everything wasn't made of concrete, people were woken by the gentle sunshine and the songs of birds fresh from their winter vacations down South. Paul didn't have the luxury of nature; the only birds he ever saw were pigeons, and they did far more crapping and far less singing than their finch and robin cousins. The wake-up call for Paul was rush hour traffic, and the bleating of horns and curses it brought every workday.

A particularly loud truck horn woke Paul. He sat bolt upright, tried to leap behind the couch for cover, and ended up tangled in his sheet. By the time he realized he wasn't being whacked, he had essentially created a straightjacket from his blanket.

"So that's what it's like to be in Arkham." Paul muttered as he wiggled his way free. When he finally worked himself loose, he threw the sheets on the floor and went to check on John.

John was a heavier sleeper. He was still passed out. One arm was thrown over his chest, the other was laying by his side. He had drooled a great deal on the carpet.

"Wake up. If you were in the Army and they caught you sleeping on duty, they'd court martial you. John, it's morning. Come on." Paul said.

John snorted and rolled over onto his belly. His nose was pressed flat into the carpet, though it didn't seem to faze him in the least. Like the paws of a dog who dreams of chasing rabbits, John's foot twitched rhythmically.

"Oh dear God, the gay pride parade is marching by the window! The President just outlawed the Bible! They've declared evolution is absolute truth!" Paul yelled.

John moaned and flopped over onto his back. His eyes blinked a few times before settling shut again. He was not going to get up even if a pair of pro-choice lesbians decided to get married on his back.

In frustration, Paul grabbed the meat fork. He jabbed John in the side with it. Two steel prongs did what moral degeneration could not.

"Don't kill me! Honest to God, it was an accident! All right, kill me but don't kill Paul!" John cried.

Paul was honestly taken back. His friend, who he'd treated like dirt and stabbed, was willing to die for him? All the anger he'd felt at John for his stupidity melted like butter in a skillet. If he wanted to live, and he truly did, they'd have to fully cooperate and he would have to stop the cruelty.

"Easy, John. It's just me. We made it through the night. I also have a plan to save our skins." Paul said.

John rubbed the sore spot on his side. "Did something bite me? Paul, does your carpet have fleas?"

Paul hid the fork behind his back. "I think you rolled on, uh, your hammer. You're probably all right, though. It's a good thing you're up. We have something important to do today."

"Buy some guns from a pawnshop willing to bend the rules?"

"No. We're going to get police protection."

John got off the floor and noticed his hammer was sitting some three feet away. Interesting. Not as interesting as Paul's plan, however.

"Ok. I suggest we get our licenses back first, though. The rental company would probably like to know why they got their car back with the front smashed in." John said.

"Before we even do that, we need disguises. All the villains know we're Jehovah's Witnesses. They'll be looking for suits and ties. We need to change our appearances." Paul said. "And you need to take a bath. In case you didn't realize it, you're caked in blood, mud, and nastiness. You're a walking biological weapons lab."

It was just then that John realized how foul he smelled. His nose had grown used to the stink and it had lost all potency. Paul reminding him of his condition brought it all back. Instead of a servant of God, he resembled a hobo who had just been beaten and mugged.

"All right. But, uh, I don't have any other clothes. We don't take the same sizes, in case you didn't know." John said.

Paul was a step ahead of him. "It won't be glamorous, but I do have some clothes big enough to fit you. They're Hawaiian, all right. Let's just say the sale was too good to miss."

While Paul dug around in his closet for the clothes, John went to take a shower. He stripped off his suit with much effort, only to find the mud had merged with his skin like a parasite in many places. His hair had become a solid mass resembling a helmet, or Anton Chigurh's infamous, and freakish, bob.

"I'm a dirty boy." John muttered as he stepped into the shower. He turned the water on as hot as he could stand. Soon, the bottom of the tub resembled a gravel pit. The air was thick with steam. John couldn't remember the last time a simple shower felt like proof of Heaven.

Just when John was beginning to believe he had died and gone on to a beautiful world of saunas and coconut-scented shampoo, the pipes, installed during the Dark Ages, began to spit out freezing water. With a shocked yelp, John leapt from the shower, nearly taking down the curtain. He landed on the bath mat, and, stark naked, shimmied away from the godless tub.

"Should have warned you about the shoddy plumbing, sorry!" Paul shouted.

Realizing that he was as naked as Adam in Eden, John hastily grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. He staggered to the mirror so he could check how human he actually looked. He did not want the rental clerk to suspect him of being insane as well as irresponsible. Ignoring the bruises sustained from having a wooden puppet slammed against his face, he looked nearly normal.

"I've found your clothes." Paul said. John cracked open the door and Paul passed them through.

John gave Paul's clothes a quick once-over. Yes, wearing his best friend's boxers was going to be humiliating. It wasn't like he really had a choice, though. He was not, under pain of death, going to be without underpants.

The shirt was flashy, gaudy, and somehow charming. It was classic Hawaiian tourist, bright green jungle background, with two large scarlet macaws perched among the trees. It was a little big on John, who outweighed Paul by twenty pounds and was three inches taller. It must have been the last shirt available for Paul to buy something so over-sized. Nonetheless, John thanked God his friend had a weakness for such frivolous clothing.

The jeans were a little tighter. They were too short and rode up to John's ankles. Beggars couldn't be choosers, especially when they were being hunted by the deadliest folks to ever crawl from the dark allies of Gotham. He'd have to suck it up, and maybe find some high socks so the world wouldn't have to stare at his furry ankles.

John departed the bathroom. While he had been wiggling into his borrowed pants, Paul had been changing into new clothes of his own. The horrific pajamas were gone, replaced by slightly less horrible casual wear. Maybe a little too casual.

"Jesus please us, Paul, you look like biker." John said.

Why on earth Paul had a pair of murdered jeans, a tattered shirt with a screaming bald eagle, and a bright red bandana, John didn't even want to guess. It was a wonder how a mild-mannered Jehovah's Witness could be transformed into a thug you'd cross the street to avoid, just by getting rid of the suit.

"All the rogues, the Joker, the Scarecrow, and Clayface, know we had suits on. They won't be looking for normal people. You look like a tourist who flew north instead of south. I look like a disheveled scumbag. If my hair was longer, I'd pull it back into a ponytail, but what can you do?" Paul replied.

"Ok. They're great disguises. We'll put them to the test soon enough. Let me call the rental agency, so they know I'll be coming down." John said.

While Paul waited for John to make his phone call, he decided to check the news. Maybe Batman had been unusually productive last night, and had rounded up all the lunatics. A man could certainly hope.

"If you're just joining us, this is exclusive video obtained from the Gotham Public Library. Jervis Tetch, known to most as the Mad Hatter, was recorded there shortly after the library opened. He is equally famous for his large hats, mind-control devices, and love of the stories of Lewis Carroll." The news anchor said.

A mug shot of the Mad Hatter, taken after his latest capture by the police, was shown. He really wasn't the sort of man you could accidentally mistake for anyone else.

"What he offered to read a group of children was nothing as innocent as _Alice in Wonderland_, however. After restraining the librarian with duct tape, he gathered over a dozen pre-school children, aged 3 to 5, and gave them story time. The story: _Mein Kampf_. Hitler's autobiography."

The video, probably captured on a library patron's cell phone, showed the Hatter, surrounded by children. He was sitting in a rocking chair, and reading with a poor reproduction of a German accent. Half the kids were actually attentive, and the other half were wandering around aimlessly. Asides from the anti-Semitism, the scene looked relatively normal.

Paul didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Clayface had gone miles beyond _Walter the Farting Dog_. The only comfort Paul could get from the situation was that _Mein Kampf _would fly right over those kids' heads. They wouldn't understand a word of it. Something like _Watership Down_ or _Animal Farm_ would have been much worse. Of course, the kids' parents wouldn't see it that way.

John wandered in, the cordless phone melding with his ear. He was biting his lip and looked on the verge of tears. "No. Please, listen just for a second. I don't want you to murder me in my sleep. No! I won't like it any more if I'm awake! My insurance _will _pay."

The rental clerk chewed John out, stomped on his masticated corpse, and then sent him to China to be made into pet food. With a final shout, the clerk hung up on him.

"Uh, I'm going to die in about thirty minutes, Paul. My will is in a sealed envelope in a lock-box under my bed. The key to the box is in a rolled up pair of socks in my dresser." John said miserably.

Paul sighed. "That bad, eh? Well, I'll stand by you. Let's get a move on."

"Can't we find that pawnshop first? I swear it'll be self defense."

"Let's go."

The two Jehovah's Witnesses left the relative safety of Paul's apartment. John considered sticking the hammer in his pocket, only to be reminded that normal people didn't walk around with carpentry tools. Besides, Harley's mallet made his seem superfluous.

The first four blocks were covered without incident. John wouldn't stop tugging at the crotch of his pants, but that really couldn't be helped. It was a good thing tight jeans were in style; unfortunately, they were mainly in style for teenage girls and gay men.

While waiting on a street corner for the light to turn, John and Paul found themselves standing outside a bar. The bar opened for lunch at 10 in the morning. That meant certain folks would drink straight through until two a.m. tomorrow. Neither John nor Paul could fathom why anyone would want to stay plastered for 16 hours.

Though the bar had only been open twenty minutes or so, someone had been drinking like a fish. The Witnesses could clearly hear two men yelling. Anyone on the other side of the street could actually hear it.

"_There isn't any wine, only _tea!"

"Uh, no. There's no wine, no tea, no apple juice. We've got Bud Light, and Miller, and fruity little drinks for the ladies. So it can either be Miller Time, or you can get lost and take your party somewhere else."

"You Jabberwocky."

"Is that from _Star Wars_?"

John and Paul couldn't help but be drawn into the conversation. The cross-walk invited pedestrians to hasten on, but they ignored it. Something very interesting was about to happen, Paul could feel it in his guts.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son. The jaws that bite, the claws that catch." John murmured.

"What?" Paul asked.

"It's a poem about a monster. I read it in high school. It's by, uh, Lewis Carroll. You know _Alice in Wonderland_." John replied.

"An obsession with the works of Lewis Carroll. Maybe we should just walk away from this one. I mean, he sounds pissed off enough without our help." Paul reasoned.

"Excellent idea. I don't know we didn't think of it sooner." John said.

A tea saucer came flying through the open door like a UFO. It struck John in the forehead. He yelped and swore. Paul attempted to scurry up a nearby lamp-post like Kong up the Empire State Building.

"That does it. You're getting the hell out of here."

There were several shouts, the sound of more fine china breaking, and then the muscular bar-tender appeared. He was holding the Hatter, who was wriggling like a catfish, out at arm's length.

With little effort, the bartender chucked the Mad Hatter. He tumbled gracelessly and landed on his head. Connecting so forcefully with the sidewalk would have knocked a normal man out. Luckily for Jervis, his hat, which was damn near large enough to serve as a parachute, cushioned the impact and saved him a concussion.

The Mad Hatter flashed the bar-tender's retreating back the bird. _That_ certainly wasn't something he'd read in _Alice in Wonderland_.

It was hard to see why John and Paul were worried about Jervis Tetch murdering them. He was about as unimposing as they came. In fact, he somewhat resembled a clown, with the monstrous hat and bowtie. He looked like the kind of person you'd invite over to entertain a birthday party full of six-year-olds.

"How queer everything is today. And yesterday things went on just as usual." The Hatter said. He lifted himself off the ground, brushed dirt from his hat, and tweaked his bowtie.

"What do you mean?" John asked before he could stop himself. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but it was too late to contain the question.

The Mad Hatter turned. He really hadn't taken note of John and Paul despite the fact they were standing hardly three feet away. Living mostly inside his weird fantasies tended to leave Tetch oblivious to the world at large. It could have been proof of a benevolent God that he hadn't wandered in front of a city bus while pondering Alice and grinning cats.

"Yes, yes, queer indeed. And awful. Harley will never forgive me." The Hatter said.

"Harley? You mean Harley Quinn? Why would she be angry with you?" Paul asked.

There was probably nothing suitable in the lines of Carroll, so the Hatter simply answered "She's Jewish."

"Oh Jehovah on high." Paul cried.

"What did we do to deserve this? _What_, damn it?" John said.

Now the Hatter was truly intrigued. "Done to deserve _what_ exactly?"

"Dark tunnels, and ruined suits, and poisoning, and car accidents-"

"Trips to the hospital, insurance premiums, head wounds, killer puppets, alligators, Charles Darwin-"

"Stephen King, and bad advice, and dirty hair, and mallets, and flamethrowers-"

The Mad Hatter, quite insane in his own right, began to wonder if his two new friends might not be as mad as a March Hare themselves. That was perfectly all right with him. He liked to associate with people who's elevators didn't go all the way to the top. They tended to be the best conversationalists. They were also the least likely to condemn him and his innumerable quirks.

"And Hieronymus Bosch." John finished.

"I'd cry you a sea of tears, if I could." The Hatter said.

John put a hand on the Hatter's shoulder. "No, you really don't have to do that. We'll be fine. Thanks for the offer, though."

"Would you like to have tea with me, then? I haven't got a March Hare, nor a Dormouse, to drink with. A party of one is no party at all." Tetch said.

"Uh, sorry. I have a prior commitment. Paul, too. We have to recover our wallets from a furious rental clerk." John said.

"No, no. I insist. All your troubles can wait." The Mad Hatter said.

"You're right, they can wait. And by God, they will. I want tea, and, and muffins." John said. He grinned stupidly, like a drunk who doesn't realized he's just peed all over his own shoes.

Paul was instantly taken back. Was John honestly suggesting he'd rather party with a deranged villain than confront an irked rental clerk? What was wrong with him?

"It really can't wait. Our lives may depend on it. John, I'll talk to the clerk if you're that afraid." Paul said.

John smiled that same empty grin and sidled closer to the Hatter. "I want tea. I want it. I'm going to get it, right?"

Jervis nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes. Plenty of tea, with all the sugar and honey you can wish for. It'll be lovely."

Something from the newscast exploded with the force of a Vietnam flashback. Mind control devices. The Hatter had John in his sway. He was hypnotized, or something. If Paul didn't do something very soon, John was going to end up, well, Paul honestly had no idea. It just wouldn't be pretty.

"Two-Face told me your tea tastes like road-kill, and I bet he's right." Paul said.

The Hatter recoiled so violently he could have had a cattle prod stuffed down his pants. "What?"

"You heard me. Two-Face told me your tea was vile, disgusting, and induced vomiting. He also said you liked to dress men up and call them 'Alice'! Your bow-tie is hideous and makes you look like a nerd. Of all the villains, you are, without a doubt, the fruitiest. You make the Joker- yes, the Joker!- look halfway normal!" Paul yelled.

Jervis Tetch, in a move no other villain would ever repeat unless he planned to kill himself immediately afterword, began to wail. John, who was now on more or less the same insane brain wave, did the same.

This was just absurd. What kind of super-villain turned into a baby when you hurt his feelings? He was more sensitive than a teenage girl. The Mad Hatter might have been more accurately described as the 'Sad Hatter'.

As abruptly as the waterworks started, they stopped. The Hatter's eyes narrowed, he reached up under his hat, and brought out a tea pot. Paul had one second to wonder how the ceramic hadn't shattered when Jervis landed on his head before the pot came sailing in his direction.

Paul ducked just in time. The tea pot flew over his head and shattered against the lamp post. Breaking his own beloved tea set didn't improve the Mad Hatter's mood any.

"Tea sucks, turpentine is better!" Paul shouted.

John tackled him. His best friend, his occasional roommate, the only man he'd ever let drive his car, his favorite human being in the entire world!

Paul struggled fiercely. John had the height and weight advantage and used it. Despite kicking, shouting, cursing, and, as a last ditch effort, biting John's hands, Paul found himself in a bear-hug he could not escape.

The Hatter now seemed a more menacing figure. It was probably because Paul had just seen him turn John from _amigo_ to zombie in four seconds. Anyone who dealt with mind-control, no matter how large and extravagant a hat they wore, could not be taken lightly.

"Now, you're going to have tea with me, right _Alice_?" Tetch said.

"Tea sucks, moose piss is better!" Paul responded. He was reduced to stealing lines from _The Water Boy_. Maybe he should just submit. After all, how bad could dressing up like a 19th Century doll really be? Certainly no worse than looking to Adam Sandler for inspiration.

Tetch frowned. It honestly shouldn't be this hard to get a civilized man to sit down for a cup of tea. Harvey was sadly classless, the Joker couldn't actually be called civilized, and dear Jonathan was very strong-willed, especially for a scarecrow, but they were all exceptions to the rule. People should _clamor_ for a spot of tea with the Hatter, not act as though he was going to poison them.

The Mad Hatter got in Paul's face. Unable to turn away, thanks to John, Paul was forced to stare directly at him. Against his will, Paul found his eyes wandering to the comically large hat. Surely, that was where the Hatter kept his mind-control devices. If it could conceal a tea pot, it could conceal whatever radio antenna or robot Tetch used to brainwash his victims.

"Are you done fussing?"

"Tea sucks, tea is better. Tea is, is-"

"Yes?"

Just as Paul lost his fight, a little divine intervention in the form of a large bottle of whiskey descended from Heaven. Actually, it descended from the muscular fist of the terminally irate bartender. He had listened to just a little too much prattling, and had finally decided to intervene.

The bottle of booze broke over Tetch's hat. The pure impact flattened his hat against his head. Whiskey shorted out whatever circuits the initial blow hadn't. His carefully tuned mind-control devices were reduced to booze-soaked chips and wires.

Smoke pouring from the ruined gadgetry inside his hat, and with an almighty migraine pounding his temples, the Mad Hatter stumbled away. His hold on John and Paul broke. John instantly let go of his friend.

"What the hell was he doing to you? Why didn't you just knock the little freak's block off?" the bar-keep asked.

Paul shook his head to clear it. "He's the Mad Hatter. I think he was screwing with our brains."

"Yeah, he's mad all right. He actually thought I was gonna put scotch in his tea. I mean, I've heard of Irish coffee, but Irish _tea_? What kind of fruit brings tea to a bar, anyway?"

"I am not a fruit!" Jervis squeaked. He had thrown off his smoking hat. He looked as mad as a hell-cat.

"I got another bottle of Jack that says you are. Get out of here before I give it to you!"

The Hatter knew when he was out-gunned. With obvious haste, he snatched up his smoldering hat and took off down the street. A trail of smoke marked his path.

"I still got that bottle of Jack. You guys want a drink?" The bartender asked.

John shook his head. Paul politely refused.

"Come on. It's on the house."

"Really, we don't drink. It's against our religion." Paul said.

"Ah, come on. God ain't gonna be pissed over a shot or two."

While Paul tried to explain why alcohol was immoral, John couldn't help but wonder if having tea with the Hatter might have been less hassle. He placed the odds as 50/50. Two-Face would have approved.

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AN: Some of the Mad Hatter's lines are from _Alice in Wonderland_. However, since I first read the story on Google Books yesterday, I wasn't familiar enough to make them all direct quotes.


	10. The Penguin

I'm looking at 2 or 3 more chapters, so the end is in sight.

To my reviewer BrocktreeJustLeft: Thanks for sticking with me. I appreciate it greatly.

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"Now I know what St. George felt, facing down the dragon." John said.

Paul, his wallet safely tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, could only nod in agreement. The rental clerk had definitely chosen the wrong career; with a voice and scowl like that, she should have been a drill sergeant.

"I'm never going to be able to rent another car. My insurance is going to sky-rocket all because of one stupid accident. If Killer Croc owned anything more than a ratty pair of shorts, I'd sue him." John said.

"I thought you wanted him killed, smoked, and turned into gator jerky." Paul said.

"Right. I'd sue him before all that."

"You'd sue an eight foot tall crocodile, who nearly reduced you to nibbles? Are you sure that's wise? I mean, defendants in civil court aren't normally hand-cuffed. I've watched _Judge Judy_ enough times to know." Paul said.

"This is all hypothetical and designed to make me feel just a little bit better. Can't you just let me have my glorious day in court? I can imagine some alligator wrestler is there to keep Croc under control, all right?" John asked.

"Sure. You can imagine anything you want. I won't call the Thought Police. I hope you don't mind the regular police, though." Paul replied.

"So we really are going to get police protection? I mean, do you think they'll believe we're in mortal danger? I doubt if they have any spare cops to just lend out." John asked.

Paul said, "I don't intend to take up any cop's time. I just want five minutes with Commissioner Gordon."

"Why? Are you planning on giving him to the villains as a peace offering?"

"What? No! John, you're developing a psychopathic mind. We're going to ask him to get us a meeting with Batman. This is more his line of work, anyway. If anyone can save our sorry cases, it'll be the Batman." Paul said.

"Fantastic! Only one problem. It's a hell of a long walk to the police station." John pointed out.

"We've got money, at least a little of it. Let's take the bus."

Compared to their last bus trip, this one was much more pleasant. None of the passengers turned into mud monsters, no one played any head-games with John, and the driver was a happy, shiny person. Paul and John gave up their custom of sitting in the back, and took the closest available seats to the door. There wasn't any copy of the _Gotham Times_ kindly left behind, but Paul amused himself by playing with the holes in his jeans. John fiddled with the buttons on his vivid shirt.

The bus driver, asides from being composed entirely of smiles and rainbows, loved to play with the intercom. At every bus stop of any import, she would announce, like a tour guide, what fun things could be done in the area. Three stops ago, she had informed the entire bus that "Miguel's Casa de Tacos has the best burritos this side of Guadalajara". Three people disembarked to test this claim.

"Ok, folks. Anyone needing to confess to murder, meet his parole officer, or just try to cage free donuts from our boys and girls in blue, this is your stop." The driver announced cheerfully.

John and Paul departed. The ebullient bus driver wished them good luck, unless they were one of those murderers she had just been talking about. Then she wished them much shanking and many uncomfortable showers.

Police headquarters was swarming with activity. Officers ran back and forth, most carrying either paperwork or Styrofoam cups of coffee. In a corner, two officers were wrestling with a heavily tattooed man who did not like being hand-cuffed in the least.

A tormented officer, seated at a desk and behind a pane of glass, ushered John and Paul forward. They were standing in the middle of the chaotic lobby, and were becoming quite the roadblock to the flow of traffic. If they weren't removed in about six seconds, at least two officers were going to break out the pepper spray.

"Can I help you two?" The officer asked.

Paul looked at his badge and discovered the cop's name was Stark. Officer Stark looked about one complaint away from going stark-raving mad, so the name fit.

"We need to see Commissioner Gordon." Paul said.

"Can't help you." Officer Stark replied. "Now, would you mind moving?"

"No, we _need_ to see the Commissioner. If we don't, we're going to die terrible deaths. Do you want our mutilated bodies on your conscience?" John asked.

"Homicide is over there."

"Honest to God, and we're Jehovah's Witnesses, so it counts double, we have absolutely got to see Gordon." Paul said.

"The Commissioner's not here."

"Then where is he? Please don't say on vacation in Tahiti." John begged.

"Gordon hasn't taken a vacation in like three decades. If not knowing will kill you, he's down at Pink Flamingos."

"He's at the zoo? Why in the hell is he at the zoo?" Paul demanded.

"Are you a little, uh, simple? Pink Flamingos isn't a zoo exhibit. It's a strip club. And before you start jawing 'why is he at a strip club, he has a kid, woe to the moral fabric of America', I'll tell you. He's there for hostage negotiations. You guys have heard of Two-Face, right? Old Half and Half? He's got a beef with the joint." Stark said.

So Clayface had been very busy. Paul could just imagine the horror at Flamingos when Two-Face strolled in. Nearly-naked women in thongs running everywhere. Cleavage flapping in the breeze. Strippers falling on top of one another. Oh the humanity!

"I can't believe I'm asking this, but where is Pink Flamingos?" John asked.

Paul's mouth fell open. "No! John, we are not going to a strip club, no matter what! I would rather walk right up to that diseased maniac and hand myself over."

John sighed. "Paul, you've got to get your priorities straight."

Paul walked away, tugging at his hair. John asked the cop for directions to the club.

"All right. Since I can see you're insistent, and won't leave me alone until I either lock you up or talk, I'll tell you. You ever heard of a place called the Iceberg Lounge? That's where I tell my girlfriend I'm going when I pay Sweet Mindy a visit. She's got the hottest damn... Sorry. Flamingos is on the other end of the block. You can't miss it; it's painted hot pink. And I do mean _hot_." Officer Stark said.

"The Iceberg Lounge? I've heard of it. Never been there, of course! But, yeah, I may have a general idea as to where its general location may be, generally." John said.

The cop grinned. "I won't tell if you won't. Now, go gather up your friend. He's impeding the flow of traffic."

With Paul muttering darkly beside him, John left the police station. The last thing he heard before the door swung shut was, "Beaumont, don't you dare let him spit on the floor!" Apparently, the tattooed thug wasn't only ugly, he was unhygienic, too.

"We're really going to do it, then? Why can't we just wait for Gordon to come back?" Paul asked.

"Who knows how long he'll be down there. Does Two-Face seem like the kind of guy who's suddenly going to see the light? He's got strippers as hostages; there's no way he's letting them go. I'm not going to sit around and twiddle my thumbs while Gordon yells at Two-Face through a megaphone." John replied.

"Fine. You better die before I do so you can explain to God why we went to a strip club." Paul muttered.

John shrugged. He really doubted if omnipotent God would have to ask anyone the reason for his or her actions. Shouldn't He, by virtue of being omnipotent God, all ready know? Surely, there had to be a few clauses, a loophole or two in the rules, for men in mortal danger. In John's humble opinion, not even God would want the Joker standing too close to Him.

"Let's get back on the bus. What line do we take?" John asked. He told Paul the street address for the Iceberg Lounge.

"Give me a second. That wasn't exactly a part of town I frequented. It's not the Black Line, or the Red. I'm decently sure the best route is the Yellow Line." Paul replied.

It took them a while to hunt down a stop on the Yellow Line. When they finally did, they discovered the bus driver was about as friendly as a rabid porcupine. John silently nicknamed him the Bus Nazi, both because he was blond, and because he looked like he'd have no trouble shooting anyone who misbehaved on his bus and dumping their corpse in a hole.

This bus was crowded, mostly with people on their lunch breaks. Several people had coffee or bottles of water, but no one dared to drink. The photocopied warning, "No Food or Drink", that had been taped to the front of the bus didn't justify it. Most buses had that sign, but Paul had seen open containers of beer being passed around on certain routes. It had to be the aura of murder that radiated off the driver. Everyone would rather cold Starbucks over whatever bodily harm the driver might commit.

"Hey, did you hear about what's going down at Flamingos? I was gonna go there last night, but my girl dragged me to a chick flick. I'm kind of glad she did. I hope Sarasota's all right. I think she only works on weekends."

"You know Virginia, right? The chick with the patriotic panties? I think she might have given Two-Face a lap-dance."

"Uh, does he need like, two strippers? I mean, does one half like, like fat chicks and the other like blondes, or something?"

Paul wanted to cover his ears. Was there anyone on this bus who didn't frequent Flamingos? Why was the world so full of people who couldn't just keep it in their pants?

The bus ride was absolute hell for Paul. John, despite the descriptions of various skillful strippers, wasn't in anywhere near as much distress. He supposed it was because women wearing pasties and nothing else were nowhere near as bad as furious Harley and her precious long, tall, and clownish.

"Paul, if you don't stop biting your lip, you're going to cut it off. I know you have the sexual drive of the dead. Calm down. We won't be on this bus much longer." John said.

They were on the bus even shorter than they anticipated. The police had cordoned off the block around Flamingos, preventing any traffic from entering or leaving. Yellow tape was hung everywhere, and a cruiser was parked in the middle of the road.

"Hang tight. Detour." The bus driver announced.

"Wait! Can you let us off here? We have business to take care of." John said.

The Bus Nazi shrugged. "Whatever."

With John and Paul standing on the sidewalk, the driver made an impossibly tight U-turn. If asked beforehand if a bus could possibly make such a turn on the narrow street, every one of the passengers would have laughed. Asides from being the Bus Nazi, the driver was also the Bus Harry Potter.

"All right. Let's go and see if these cops will let us pass." John said.

"Thank Jehovah we're off that bus! Did you hear those two behind us? Jesus, God, and Mary!" Paul said.

John and Paul ducked under the yellow police tape. They approached the cop car parked in the road. No cop emerged to ask them just what in the hell they were doing. That was because the car was empty.

Exactly why the fuzz-mobile was empty became apparent. The windshield bore three holes, each surrounded by a network of spider web cracks. If TV cop dramas had taught John anything, it was what bullet holes looked like. When the bullets started flying, the police had obviously sought better cover.

"Hey, retards! Get out of the road!" Someone yelled.

"Yeah, man! Get over here!"

Two college-age men were waving frantically from a doorway. A few of their curious friends were also peeking out, though they weren't exposing so much of their vulnerable bits.

A gunshot rang out, followed by a loud, high-pitched scream. For one dreadful moment, it appeared a woman had been shot. Then, to the relief of everyone, the same woman yelled "Why in the hell didn't you tell me you were gonna start shooting? I would have covered my ears! See if I ever give you another lap dance, you two-faced freak!"

By the time Two-Face and the shrill woman were done yelling at each other, John and Paul were safely inside. They hardly had time to take in the polar ambience before a short, round, finely dressed fellow waddled up to them. Despite the fact he was indoors, and the roof looked in perfect order, he carried a black umbrella at his side. Maybe he thought it made him looked distinguished; maybe he was deathly afraid of getting wet and never left home without it.

"Two more, eh? You want to stay, you've got to buy something to drink." The man said.

"We, uh, don't drink. We're Jehovah's Witnesses so alcohol and smoking are out." Paul said.

"You don't want to buy, you can scurry across the street to the Peacock. You look like you'd be right a home there." The rotund aristocrat said, pointing at John.

John took a stab in the dark. "Is, uh, the Peacock, you know, a gay bar?"

The titters from the crowd confirmed this. Paul put a hand over his eyes and groaned. John sighed. He didn't think any gay man would wear something so piteously tacky.

"No, we'll go get a drink. I could really use one. Paul can go and throw his in that pond." John said.

The umbrella obviously wasn't just for show and for keeping off the wet, wet rain. It also served as a fine club. John discovered this when he was _whapped_ on the head, shoulder, and foot all in a mere second. For a chubby guy in a tux, this man could administer a beat down.

"Pond? It isn't a pond! I'll give you pond!" The man squawked.

"Uh, Ozzy, aren't you supposed to avoid assaulting the customers? I mean, after the cops came last week, you had to pay that guy like 200 dollars so he'd drop charges- I should shut up now, right?" A waiter, dressed in white and black, said.

"Get back to the kitchen before I throw you out on the street!"

"I take it back! Ow, damn it. That's going to leave a mark. It's not a pond, it's a beautiful reflecting pool. Ow. That foot's never going to be right again. I apologize profusely. Why did you start with the head? I really want that drink now." John said. He hobbled off to the bar.

John limped off, but Paul was in such a foul mood from the bus ride he wasn't going to give any moral ground. Shoving the umbrella aside, ignoring the indignant squeaks, Paul intended to show this rolly-polly pushover what a disgustingly rotten day he was having.

"Listen to me. I don't care if you run this place or not. I don't care if you're richer than Bruce Wayne and have women throwing themselves on you. I don't care that you're four and a half feet tall and as round as a baseball. That doesn't matter to me. What matters is that you're a bully with a Napoleon complex, and if you whack anyone else with that umbrella, I'll jam it up your beak, understand, _Ozzy_?" Paul warned.

The pure wrath rolling off of Paul like some carcinogenic radiation would have turned back a villain with a fainter heart. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot was afraid of neither glaring eyes nor red auras. He did not like being threatened, he hated being compared to Bruce Wayne, and he ultimately detested having his nose referred to as a 'beak'.

_Thwack_! The lethal umbrella struck Paul soundly across the forehead. He had seen it coming at the last second, and had just enough time to activate a tiny portion of his oft-unused reflexes to duck. He hadn't managed to avoid getting hit entirely, but he saved himself a broken nose.

That did it. Paul could only stand being assaulted by one little man in a top hat per day. Today was the Mad Hatter's turn. The Penguin had pushed Paul over the brink. It was time to see what years piled on years of repressed anger looked like.

Paul threw himself on top of the Penguin, knocking them both to the floor. He sustained a severe jab to the guts from the umbrella. In return, he punched Ozzy in the beak. The umbrella came again, this time to the side of his head. Paul's hearing was suddenly gone on one side. The only sound was a constant buzz, like an empty phone line or a killer bee intent on stinging in the most painful place possible. Paul found that dry buzz infuriating.

They traded blow for blow, the Penguin keeping up admirably for a man of his fitness level. With the umbrella, he was as skilled as a samurai with a sword. He knew the best places for poking and jabbing, and exploited them perfectly. A particularly strong stab to the ribs finally dislodged Paul.

Clutching his side, feeling like someone had just slid a knife into his lung, Paul stumbled away. He could not believe this. Yes, he was a peaceful servant of God, not a Crusader, but even he should be capable of whacking a chubby geek wearing a monocle. You didn't have to be Jackie Chan to take down a man a full head shorter and twice as heavy. It should have been a cakewalk, not the Tet Offensive!

"One last chance before I thrash you. Get out." Oswald said. He was back on his feet, and grinning. Despite the exertion, he was hardly panting. In fact, he looked more ready for the second round than Paul did.

"Right, exactly! Let's go, Paul. I don't care if Peacock's is run by Adolph Hitler. I'll take my chances." John said.

"Piss off, John!"

John shrunk back. Paul had never talked to him so bluntly, not even on the bus just after Clayface's departure. For that matter, he didn't think he'd ever seen Paul so ready to kill. The weeks of being every villain's prey must have finally snapped him. John couldn't entirely blame him, but he couldn't let Paul get involved in a death match with the Penguin. An umbrella was not worth a murder rap.

By now, the brawl had drawn the Penguin's goons. Each dressed in a black-and-white tuxedo, much like the waiters, they stood ready to assist. Oswald waved them off. He didn't need a task-force to take down one spirited Holy Roller.

"This is a sin. Wrath! He isn't worth it. The cops can deal with him after they deal with Two-Face. I know you're frustrated, but you can't hit him." John said.

"Weren't you paying attention? I hit him plenty all ready. Give me a minute, and you'll see a hell of a lot more hitting." Paul replied.

The Penguin smirked. "We'll see, won't we? Have at it, then!"

Paul took the invitation with gusto. He threw himself back into the fray, heedless of any of the numerous contusions he had all ready sustained. Tomorrow, he'd likely discover a bruise the shape of Kazakhstan on his back, but right now adrenaline blocked his nerves.

"Hell fire." John muttered. He could not allow this to go on, not if he wanted to have any self respect. There was nothing verbal that he could do to separate the combatants, but he did know a trick for breaking up fights. When two dogs went at it, the best thing to do was get the hose and spray them down. There wasn't any hose handy, but an icy pitcher of beer might be just as good. If a bottle of whiskey could save them from mind control, some beer might prevent Paul from ending up as pulp.

Since everyone in the lounge was watching the fight, plenty of alcohol had been left unattended. John shoved his way through the gathered crowd and meandered around the tables until he found a full pitcher. It certainly was cold enough to quell any violent thoughts, at least in John's opinion.

By the time John had forced his way back to the front of the crowd, Paul and the Penguin were at it again. Their fight had turned decidedly one-sided. Paul was retreating quicker than the French army from Russia, and clutching his left hand in a way that suggested it had been smashed by Penguin's umbrella. Things were looking rather desperate for the Witness.

John heaved roughly half the pitcher on the Penguin. He gave a very bird-like squawk when he was doused. The other half landed on Paul, who gave a very sailor-like swear.

"Enough is enough. Don't make me go back and get another pitcher." John warned.

With cold beer dripping off his clothes, Paul lost all interest in fighting. Oswald wasn't dissuaded; as the Penguin he didn't mind cold or wet. However, he did mind having beer thrown all over his dry-clean only, extremely expensive, hand-tailored tuxedo. He also minded having his immaculately clean floor covered in cheap liquor. He minded most of all being denied the chance to beat the impudent dog into the ground.

"I'm so sorry, John. I don't know what came over me." Paul said.

"It's Freudian, my dear sir." John replied.

A jet of fire interrupted the happy reconciliation. Upon seeing that the Penguin's umbrella was far more than just a bludgeon, the crowd parted faster than the Red Sea. People took cover under tables, behind the bar, and a few jumped into the decorative pool. Those folks found the water chilled to the same temperature as the North Sea, and promptly began to cry about it.

"Jesus Christ on a picket fence! He's got a flamethrower!" John exclaimed.

The Penguin pointed his smoking umbrella at John and Paul. He uttered a laugh that sounded very much like his namesake's call.

Before they were both reduced to cinders, John and Paul broke for the door. With everyone, including the Penguin's goons, hunkering down, they didn't have any problems. They threw open the glass doors and prayed for the best.

Both the Witnesses and the Penguin had obviously forgotten all about Two-Face and his gun. John and Paul ran down the street, towards Flamingos. Oswald pursued them, his umbrella emitting a stream of fire whenever he got in range.

Two-Face, accompanied by an exotic dancer, emerged from the strip club. Unless he was losing his mind, something very bizarre was happening just up the street. A fat man with a flamethrower was chasing two poorly dressed suckers straight toward him. That fat man bore a striking resemblance to the Penguin. It was! Who would have thought that waddling Ozzy could move so damn fast?

The cops, who had taken cover behind their cars when Dent lost his temper and started shooting, also peered out like curious prairie dogs. Even for Gotham officers, who had seen it all at least twice, this was something new. It was relatively common to be called to defuse one rogue, but odd to have another wander onto the scene.

By virtue of being born with longer legs and feet that weren't flat, John and Paul managed to reach the three cop cars parked in front of Flamingos before the Penguin could roast them. John ended up scrabbling across the hood of a cruiser and falling to the pavement. He nearly landed on the officer who had taken shelter there. Paul, not possessing such monkey agility, just ran around the car before ducking down.

"What in the hell is this about? Who are you, and why has that guy got a torch?" One of the officers asked.

"Penguin...Pissed off...Threw beer on him" John panted.

"Knew...this...idea sucked." Paul added.

"Cobblepot, drop the umbrella!"

John and Paul both turned toward the voice of authority. Commissioner Gordon, megaphone in hand, was standing tall. He apparently had great faith that Two-Face wouldn't shoot him while his back was turned and his attention was diverted. Paul didn't think he had that kind of faith in _God_, let alone in a convicted felon.

The Penguin came to a slow stop. Like a big rig truck coming down a hill, he needed a while to counteract the momentum he built up.

"The cavalry's all ready arrived, eh? Time for this bird to fly the coop." The Penguin said. He pressed a concealed button on the handle of his umbrella. With a whirl of torn fabric, the umbrella transformed into a portable rotor. Powered by his umbrella, the Penguin flew.

"I flunked physics, twice, but how in the hell does that thing create enough lift? I mean, Penguin's got to weigh like 400 pounds." A cop muttered.

With precision only years of practice could bring, Gordon dropped the megaphone, drew his gun, and shot the spinning blades of Penguin's umbrella. Like the flightless bird he was, Oswald dropped from the sky. He landed with all the grace of a dead, frozen chicken.

"Down goes Tubby." Two-Face said. The stripper at his arm laughed. For her, this was much better than her average work day. Her clientele weren't all 65 years old, and Two-Face showed his appreciation with two dollar bills.

"Nice shot, Commissioner." John said.

Gordon holstered his gun. "I'm getting too old for this nuttiness."

"Uh, then you aren't going to like this. We've got a major problem and we need your help." John said.

"Can it wait until I negotiate the release of 22 hostages?" The Commissioner asked.

"If you knew what we went through to get here, you wouldn't dare to ask that." Paul said.

"Well I don't know, so I'm going to ask. Would you kindly hand me my megaphone?" Gordon replied.

Thankful that Harvey had been decent enough not to shoot him, Gordon turned from Penguin's train wreck and back towards Flamingos. He found the doorway deserted. In the confusion John, Paul, and the Penguin had brought with them, Two-Face had made a run for it. He had taken two strippers with him.

"Uh, Commissioner, do we call this a success or a failure? I mean, Two-Face got away, and took some chicks with him, but he didn't kill anybody. A couple of cruisers are gonna need new windshields, and I think he blew the tires on mine, but everyone's generally fine." One of the officers said.

"Those chicks, Angel and Posh, they wanted to go. I sort of did, too, but I got classes this evening." A recently liberated stripper said.

John, Paul, and the Commissioner exchanged looks. "Why in the name of God did you want to run off with a half-fried lunatic?"

"He's got a bitchin' color scheme going on. And, what can I say, I like bad boys. Robbing banks and car chases, getting my picture in the paper... Can't blame those two." The stripper said wistfully.

"Great. Just beautiful. By tomorrow night, not only will I have Dent to worry about, I'll have his two new side-kicks. I don't want to imagine what they'll be dressed in." Gordon muttered.

"Forget tomorrow night. We need your help, right here, right now." Paul said.

The Commissioner sighed. Everyone always needed help this moment. Honestly, it was police work, not a fast food restaurant. People had to stop expecting instant gratification from every aspect of their lives.

"What is so pressing that you risked your lives to see me?" Gordon asked.

"We need you to turn on the Bat Signal for us. See, we made a mistake. The mother of all mistakes. The only one who can save our bacon is the Batman." Paul said.

"I can't turn on the signal. It won't be of any use." Commissioner Gordon replied.

"Why the hell not? Listen, we're screwed otherwise." Paul said.

"It's noon. The signal's useless during the day. Besides, bats are nocturnal."

"Can I borrow your gun, then?"

"No. "


	11. Killer Moth

I had deathly bad writer's block on this story for a month. In the meantime, I started a new story I should finish in about two weeks. I do intend to complete this fic. This is either the second or third to last chapter. It's the final stretch, either way.

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"Paul, I'm hungry." John said.

"John, I'm in blinding agony. Who would have thought an umbrella could hurt so much? If Kevorkian walked up to me right now, I'd kiss his feet. Adrenaline doesn't last nearly long enough. I think the waddling bastard punctured something. Feels like a kidney, maybe my spleen." Paul moaned.

"Nah, it can't be your spleen. When that baby ruptures, it really ruptures. You'd be feeling the internal bleeding by now. Hell, you'd probably be dead by now." A cop said.

"How do you know so much about spleens?" John asked.

"My dad's a doctor, my mom's a vet. I know about human, dog, cat, iguana, horse, and guinea pig spleens. I'm the resident Spleen Expert. Gordon, you hear that? I am Spleen Man! You gotta pay me more for my services." The cop said.

The Commissioner turned, his moustache bristling. "You're lucky to still have a job, Harrison. Why did you feel the need to provoke Dent into a shooting rampage? Those new windshields should be coming out of your paycheck."

Officer Harrison shrugged. "Spleen Man is misunderstood and criticized everywhere he travels. Maybe he should head to Chicago, or Butte."

"Spleen Man, I'll respect you if you find me 50 Extra-Strength Tylenol." Paul said.

Harrison, Spleen Man's mild-mannered alter ego, replied, "Buddy, you're a little pathetic. We've got an ambulance on the way. I'm sure Spleen Man can convince the EMT to slip you some morphine, or something."

With the ambulance still some way off, the only thing Paul could do was sit and moan. In the back of a police car, hand-cuffed and bereft of umbrella, top hat, and monocle, the Penguin was doing the exact same thing. He'd fallen quite some way, and, despite his round shape, he did not bounce.

When the ambulance finally did arrive, Paul was greeted with a familiar face. It was the same young paramedic who kept ticking Two-Face off and had nearly been shot to death over his stupidity. It was funny, how fate seemed to circle around.

"Small world, huh? Jesus, did you get in a fight with a bear?" the EMT asked.

"No, a penguin. Can you just anesthetize me right now? Everything hurts. I'll swear it before the throne of God, even my hair hurts, and that's impossible." Paul said.

Spleen Man rolled his eyes. "Yeah, go ahead and gas this dude. He's had a rough day and he's all ready for sleepy time."

The paramedic laughed. "No way. This guy saved my life. I was going to get absolutely murdered, right in front of a packed ER. We've got to catch up."

"Hell, then. Forget sleepy time. It's story time." Harrison said.

Since Harrison was a newcomer, John and Paul started from the beginning. They gave an abridged version, avoiding any details that were unnecessary. Somehow, the fact that crocodiles kept their genitals inside their bodies most of the time was deemed too important, or weird, to exclude.

By the time they finished, Spleen Man and the paramedic were wearing twin looks of shock. All this story-telling made John wonder if there might not be a book or movie deal in this whole mess somewhere. He'd give all the proceeds to UNICEF, or something, but he wouldn't mind seeing some stud Hollywood star sweep a busty red-headed actress off her feet and kiss her among the tulips and lilies.

"You two must have been Hitler and Stalin in past lives. That is the only explanation for this run of luck. That, or God just _hates_ you." Harrison said.

"If I was you, I'd get out of Gotham and head straight to Metropolis. I'd tape myself to Superman's ass, so I'd be under constant protection." The paramedic said. He didn't bother to explain why Superman was supposed to allow two men to tape themselves to his butt, or how he'd fight with such a hindrance.

"We're actually going to get a chance to plead our case to Batman, tonight. The Commissioner said he'd turn on the Bat Signal, once it got dark." John said.

"Cool. You know, I saw Batman once. He was standing on the roof of this warehouse, and he had this pair of Bat binoculars. Anyway, he's intense. And sort of creepy. I got nervous because I didn't want him swooping down and pummeling me, so I ran the hell out of there." The EMT said.

Spleen Man, being a cop, naturally had his own experiences. "You guys got on the Scarecrow's bad side, yeah? Well, I can sympathize. Last Halloween, me, my partner, and two guys in another squad car all got gassed. They had their windows down, so they got it worse. I don't know what they saw, but I had snakes coming out of my radio. It sucked _mucho_."

The Witnesses, the cop, and the paramedic might have swapped stories all day if Gordon hadn't demanded Harrison get back to work. With an exasperated sigh, the cop walked off to interview a few more strippers.

"So, I take it you need some place to be for the next six hours, until it gets dark?" The EMT asked.

"No, they don't. They're staying at Police Headquarters, under close guard. I've got enough to worry about all ready." The Commissioner said.

"Damn. I was going to invite you guys to lounge around Gotham General. The police station's probably a lot cooler, anyway. They'll give you guys free donuts and stuff." The paramedic said.

The Penguin started squawking from the back of the police car. "If he doesn't get attention right now, he'll probably sue his way out of any charges. I'll get you some Tylenol, Paul." The EMT said.

As it ended up, Oswald Cobblepot moaned and whined his way into a free trip to the hospital. Gordon ordered Harrison to ride in the back of the ambulance with him. The cop was still muttering about how little respect Spleen Man got when the ambulance drove off.

Paul popped the six Tylenol the paramedic had given him. In John's opinion, his friend was getting a little too good at taking pills. It would be one serious fall from grace, to go from a Jehovah's Witness to a back alley drug addict. Not to mention how little cred a Tylenol addiction would get him in rehab.

After all the strippers had been interviewed and sent about their business, Commissioner Gordon collected Paul and John. He stuck Paul in the back seat, behind the metal mesh that separated the cops from the arrested. John got to ride shotgun.

"Uh, Commissioner, are we really safe at the police station? I mean, is there going to be someone with a gun standing next to us the whole time?" John asked.

"Do you two watch the news?" Gordon asked. "If you did, you'd know I don't have one man to spare. Between the Joker, Hatter, and now Dent, I'm going to be busy until retirement. Even if we could get the Batman signed on permanently, we'd be rounding up the rogues until Christmas."

"Have you noticed any unusual behavior with the villains, lately?" John said. He tried to sound nonchalant. He failed.

"Asides from the Joker parading around in pink lingerie, Harley threatening news anchors, the Mad Hatter getting drunk and trying to brain-wash a fire hydrant, and Harvey Dent visiting a strip club, no. Why?" Gordon asked.

"We may have some information." Paul said.

"I'm listening." The Commissioner said.

"It's Clayface. He's transforming into the villains and ruining their names." John said.

The squad car abruptly jerked. "What?!"

"It's a long story. A very long story." Paul said.

"It's full of adventure, pain, villains, more pain, and some fire." John said.

"Talk."

"Uh, sure thing, Commissioner. It all started with the Joker. I bet a lot of your problems start that way, huh?" John said.

The furrow that appeared on Gordon's forehead confirmed this. If not for the Joker, he would have half the gray hair he did. That clown was going to be the death of him, and likely many other people in Gotham. What the Commissioner didn't understand was how these two, who looked like a pair of schmucks, had survived without so much as a bruise. They certainly made a case that a divine being was watching over folks, and occasionally, between world wars and firestorms, tossed a few lucky bastards some bones.

"Harley, she really wasn't so bad, you know, for a woman living in sexual sin with a lunatic clown. She was friendly, I guess." Paul said.

"But the Joker was a nightmare! He took this hammer and smashed all our literature with it. And then he claimed he was superior to the Word of God, because he could hammer it." John added.

"And then he took the mallet, and killed my car. That car was precious to me. I ate bologna sandwiches and lived on a Third World budget for months to afford it! I will _die_ being offended over my car's untimely death." Paul said.

By the time Gordon pulled the police car into his reserved parking spot at the downtown station, John and Paul had gotten all the way to the encounter on the bus with the shape shifting Clayface. John, since he was the idiot who had convinced Clayface to run around shaming the other villains and pissing them off mightily as a side effect, told most of the story. He was careful to mention how profusely sorry he was for causing the city and the cops that protected it so much grief and woe.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to press charges. There's not a man alive who wouldn't be shocked to discover his fellow transit rider was actually a wanted villain." Gordon assured him.

"That's great. Hey, your officers aren't going to be angry at me, are they? I mean, they're all working overtime and it's sort of my fault." John said.

The Commissioner winced. Yes, the Gotham PD was in an uproar over the sudden spike in crime and weird behavior. The three officers who had been called to retrieve a thoroughly plastered Jervis Tetch and had received numerous injuries from flying tea cups certainly weren't too happy. The motorcycle cop who had been run off the road by Harley Quinn in a speeding stolen news van wasn't exactly the happiest fellow, either. Gordon didn't think any of the cops would react too violently, but Officer Daniels, the unlucky motorcyclist, had road rash where nobody wanted it. He might be looking to smash some teeth in.

"Play it close to the chest. If anyone asks, tell them the Joker has threatened to kill you. I'm going to assume it was you that Ms. Quinn was talking about with her little art exhibit last night." Gordon said.

"That was definitely us. I almost cried when I saw that picture with the bulldozer." Paul said.

"All right then, so it won't be a lie. I cop can smell lies like a shark can smell blood. Don't bullshit up, all right?" Gordon advised.

John and Paul nodded in agreement. They all ready had Gotham's worst on their butts; they didn't need to add Gotham's finest, too.

After the Commissioner delivered his message, he and John exited the car. The doors in the back could only be opened from the outside, like doors with child locks engaged, so criminals could not open them and roll out into the street. Paul was stuck in his seat, looking perfectly forlorn, until Commissioner Gordon pulled the door handle and released him.

The police station was as chaotic as it had been earlier in the morning. Officer Stark was still located at the front desk, but he was wearing a smile that suggested he had taken a little trip to the evidence locker and snorted everything he could get his hands on. Paul wondered just how often drug tests were performed, and decided it probably wasn't often enough.

"Commissioner! We're glad you're back, and alive. We got radio contact from a couple cruisers. They said Two-Face split, but you caught the Penguin. So, you think the 245 will stick?" A cop asked.

"What's a 245?" John asked.

"Police-speak for assault with a deadly weapon. Yes, I think it will stick. These two are Jehovah's Witnesses. They'll be excellent, reliable witnesses in court, I'm sure." Gordon replied.

"Kick ass." The officer said.

"Hey, Commissioner, are we going to have to babysit those two guys? I don't mean to be a nuisance, but we're a little too busy to watch a pair of John Q's." A Hispanic cop said.

"Mendez, these two have been directly threatened by the Joker. I'm sure you saw the news report last night. It was directed at these two. If they die, we have officially failed them and the public at large, and should all turn in our badges. Understand?" Gordon replied sharply.

"What I meant, sir, it that, uh, I personally volunteer to keep these men safe! I will guard them with my life. If anyone starts shooting, I will put my physical body between them and certain death." Mendez said hastily.

"It looks like you'll get a guard, after all. Mendez, I still want your paperwork on the prostitution ring completed by the time you clock out, all right?" Gordon asked.

Mendez saluted the Commissioner, and promptly took hold of John and Paul's arms. He dragged them from the lobby, through a series of doors, and finally took them to a stairwell.

"You two can come up to my office. It's on the third floor. Anybody tries to get to you, they'll have to go through three floors of cops. No way, no how is anything going to get you. Not unless it flies through the window with a jetpack or something." Mendez promised.

Paul, despite the Tylenol, eyed the stairs with dismay. He was too tired and achy to climb anything.

"Can't we take the elevator?" he asked.

"No. Stairs are good for your cardiac muscles. Strong heart, long life, don't get killed by the damned Joker." Mendez replied.

By the time the cop and Jehovah's Witnesses had climbed the stairs, Paul was drooping like a dying lily. The cop grunted. "Jeez, buddy. You might not stand a chance against that psycho if some stairs do you in."

"I got beat up. You know that assault with a deadly weapon? I was the one getting assaulted! I have bruises the size of Volkswagens, and I think my left kidney is bruised." Paul said.

"Oh, sorry. Why didn't you tell me?" The cop asked.

"Because I couldn't breathe."

"Oops. Well, way to soldier on, then. Come on over to my office. I've got a chair for you, and a pretty damn nice view. You'll be able to watch the sunset in five and a half hours." Mendez said.

The cop had chairs, all right, but they were of the steel folding variety. As for his nice view, it consisted of a dying tree, a lamppost, and a crowded sidewalk. If Paul titled his head, he could see a crack of sky between two buildings.

Those five hours were some of the absolute slowest of John and Paul's lives. The only excitement was when a female detective, Renee Montoya, brought them cans of soda and Chinese food at three o'clock. The Witnesses' story had apparently spread with the virulence of Ebola, and every cop in the department heard one version or another. Montoya claimed to feel so sorry for them she even sprung for extra fortune cookies. John's fortune advised him to be generous with his money. Paul's slip of paper predicted he would have good luck. Apparently, Chinese fortune cookies were not omnipresent.

The sun finally began to set and the lamp across the street flickered on. Mendez stretched in his chair and yawned. "Man, I want to go home. Only another hour, and then it's beer, beer, and a nice ham sandwich."

"Drinking's no good for you, body or spirit. Right John?" Paul said.

John wasn't paying attention. Something across the street had drawn his gaze. In the gathering gloom that never quite became true night due to all the city lights that never shut off, a large shape was fluttering around. It weaved in and out of the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.

"Uh, John? You still think drinking is an offense to God, right?" Paul asked.

"I think I just saw Boba Fett." John said.

"_Who_?" Mendez asked.

"_What_?" Paul said.

"Boba Fett. From _Star Wars_. There's something out there in some kind of crazy suit and helmet, and it looks like Boba Fett." John insisted.

Paul and Mendez both glued themselves to the window. After a minute, they gasped simultaneously and backed away from the glass.

"Holy shit, there's an alien flying around out there." Mendez said.

"No. You know what that is? It's Mothman! He's the same guy who tore that woman's hair out. John, when we were at the hospital because of the Scarecrow's poison, the nurse said Mothman attacked a patient. That's the Mothman!" Paul exclaimed.

Sure enough, Killer Moth, often misidentified as Mothman, buzzed into the light, again. His orange wings revealed that he was neither Boba Fett nor an alien. He was simply a villain who had no respect because he liked to dress up as a bug and was attracted to bright lights.

Mendez approached the window again. He watched as Killer Moth circled the light, occasionally revealing himself fully. The cop didn't know whether to call for backup, call an exterminator, or just watch the costumed freak bounce off the lamppost like the other bugs that had been lured by its siren light.

"I don't mean to offend, because that costume took a lot of engineering I'm sure, but he's pretty lame." John said.

"Yeah. Hey, I'm going to call the guys downstairs. They're going to want to see this. Maybe someone's got a camera on them." Mendez said. He pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket.

Officer Mendez must have had the cell phone numbers for the entire GPD stored in his address book. He spent the next ten minutes calling on-duty officers and demanding they find a window to look out of.

Killer Moth bumped his green helmeted head against the light bulb a little too hard. It went out, instantly ending the attraction he had for it. Looking for something else to play with, he spotted Mendez's well-lit office. He took off for the new light source.

"Jesus! He's coming right for us!" Paul cried.

Mendez, instead of un-holstering his gun, grabbed his written report on the 28 hookers who had been arrested in a serious of prostitution busts. He rolled it up as one would do a newspaper. While the freak in the moth flight suit buzzed for the window, Mendez tapped the rolled paper against his palm. He had swatted enough flies, bees, spiders and mosquitoes in his life to know how to deal with buggies.

Killer Moth struck the window, but lacked the force to break it. Instead, he ricocheted off and dropped a few feet in altitude. A detective on the second floor got the shock of her life when a pair of legs appeared in her window and hovered there.

"Wow, he _is_ lame." John said. Compared to the other villains, i.e. the ones that posed a threat to the city, Killer Moth was a joke.

Lame he might be, but the Moth was persistent. He flew at the window again. This time, he backed up and took a running start.

The window shattered and glass rained down on Mendez's carpet. Killer Moth wasn't shaken by the impact, and immediately tried to molest the florescent bulbs in the ceiling.

"Asshole, you broke my window!" Mendez yelled. He began to beat at any part of Killer Moth's body that he could reach. The room had a relatively low ceiling, so everything below the shoulders was fair game for Mendez's fist and rolled up hooker report.

Other cops had heard the sound of breaking glass, and of Mendez cursing. Three officers burst into the cramped office, and they had their guns drawn. Upon seeing how good of a job Mendez was doing, armed with only his paper, they relaxed.

"Stop, man! Hey, I just want some light. Ouch, that's Spandex, not armor." Killer Moth exclaimed.

"He can talk? Huh, how about that." One of the newly arrived cops mused.

"Yeah, I can. If it's that important, I'll go buzz someplace else. Enough with the freaking whacking!" Moth snapped.

"Can you wait until we get pictures?"

Three cops withdrew cell phone cameras and clicked photographs of the fluttering villain. One of them recorded a video that would take YouTube by storm and earn him television interviews and short-lived fame in Gotham.

"How humiliating." Killer Moth muttered. He tried to fly out the hole that had previously been occupied by a pane of glass. He misjudged his angle, however, and knocked his skull off the wall. His flight system was jarred by the impact and he veered into Mendez's desk.

Before he could recover, or fix the ominous whir his wings were making, Mendez tackled him. "Buddy, you broke the property of a police officer. You are going no place fast. Damn, that's one big dent you put in the plaster."

"Would one of you damn rubberneckers kindly get the Commissioner up here? I don't care if he's on break, on the crapper, or what. He's calling the Bat right now. I want the Mothman out of here, pronto." Mendez said.

Five minutes later, Commissioner Gordon, along with half the curious police force, was standing in the hall outside. More photos were taken of Killer Moth. The tabloids would be supplied with material to write lurid tales about women having sex with giant bugs from Skull Island, or wherever, for the rest of the year.

Gordon quietly escorted John and Paul from the room. Once they were out of earshot and heading for the roof, he asked, "Killer Moth wasn't after you, was he?"

"No. I think he was just after Officer Mendez's light. I really didn't feel threatened by Mothman at all, really." Paul said.

"If only all the villains were like that." John said wistfully.

"If all the villains were like him, we wouldn't need the Batman's help." Paul reminded him. "Speaking of which, how long does it take him to respond to the signal?"

"It depends. Sometimes he shows up in five minutes, sometimes it takes a little longer." Gordon replied. "After all, he's the Dark Knight, not a pizza delivery."

"I suppose that's true. The Batmobile would be one superfluous delivery car." John said.

"John, do yourself a favor and don't accidentally insult Batman, all right?" Paul asked.

"Of course. My mouth only gets me in trouble with villains."

"So far."

"So far." John agreed.

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If Killer Moth has any fans insulted by his portrayal as a dork, I apologize. I do it only in jest. I realize that he's now a great Mothra-type thing, but for my purposes, he's in a flight suit.


	12. The Riddler

I bet you all never thought it was coming, but here it is! After weeks and weeks, I proudly present Chapter 12!

I'd like to thank all of the reviewers. I'm dreadfully sorry I made you wait so long. Please, accept my most sincere apologies!

11111111111111111111

The Bat Signal had been on for twenty minutes. Paul finally found resisting gravity to be too taxing on his body, so he laid down. John, who had not been beaten up by a chubby thief armed with an umbrella, began to pace. Commissioner Gordon, who apparently had a longer attention span and knew Batman wasn't at his every beck and call, stood and continued to remain dignified.

"Maybe if I act dead, he'll get here faster." Paul commented. He sprawled out his limbs, stuck out his tongue, and moaned.

"The dead don't moan, Paul." John pointed out.

"Then I'm nearing death, which isn't all that far from the truth. Isn't Tylenol supposed to last eight hours? I only took it six hours ago, and I feel just as bad as before." Paul said.

While Paul kvetched about how Tylenol had failed him and he was going to switch to Advil for all severe injuries sustained in the future, the Commissioner scanned the dark skies. He wasn't really surprised that Batman hadn't made an appearance yet. If the Gotham Police Department had encountered three rogues--Penguin, Mad Hatter, and Two-Face--in one day, the Bat was almost sure to have it worse.

Indeed, Batman was having a very rough night. Edward Nigma, better known as the Riddler, was throwing an unusually violent fit. Only twenty minutes ago, he had blown a television studio into rubble, forcing the cancelation or postponement of three sitcoms, one soap opera, two cop dramas, and one wildly popular game show. Luckily, the Riddler had been decent enough to let the live studio audiences the game show was filmed in front of to leave before he detonated his bombs. Otherwise, a great many nerdy quiz-fans would have been sent home in shoeboxes.

Batman wasn't particularly sad to see the cop dramas' sets reduced to smoldering pieces of junk and tatters of poorly sewn blue police uniforms. In fact, if the Riddler had been content to just explode _The Beat_ and _The Blue Fury_, Batman would have given him a free pass. While Bruce Wayne didn't watch too much television—between being Batman and trying to convince the outside world he was nothing but a slightly socially conscious player, there wasn't much time to prop up his feet and enjoy the brain-numbing effects—he had the misfortune of accidentally catching a little of both series. _The Beat_ was apparently about a police station filled with nymphomaniac cops, who were just as likely to arrest hookers as require their services. _The Blue Fury_ tried at gritty and realistic, and ended up presenting cops as ideal employees for Guantanamo Bay.

But, alas, Nigma hadn't restrained himself to freeing the public from badly performed dramas. By blowing up the filming studio used by Gotham's favorite quiz show, _Big Brains, Big Bucks_, the Riddler had attacked Batman's family. Maybe that was stretching it a little. He had taken Alfred's absolute, favorite, come out of a coma if it was on, television show off the air. The poor butler would now have no way to show his mental superiority and keen ability to humiliate Wayne's pathetic knowledge of South Asian countries. There would be no more shouts from the normally reserved man of "Burma, you bloody fool, Burma!"

Revenge for Alfred was enough of a reason for Batman to track down the Riddler and escort him back to Arkham, where he could keep a likely hung-over Jervis Tetch company. Curiosity, though, was an equally important element. Batman wondered why Edward Nigma would, out of the blue, storm into a studio, apparently forego his riddles for curses and threats, and then blow the whole thing up before disappearing. Maybe one of the witnesses could shed some light on the Riddler's odd behavior.

The best man to ask might be the game show's host. He was a middle-aged man who, asides from having gray hair and a stylish moustache, looked quite a bit like Jonathan Crane. He was tall, thin, and probably enjoyed chemistry experiments. To host a show that routinely features certified geniuses with plenty of wit and no money, he'd also have to be smart. Maybe he was observant, as well.

Before the cops could snatch anyone away for private interviews, Batman decided it was time to make his presence known. He appeared from the dark shadows of a nearby warehouse and proceeded to scare the living daylights out of people who had just witnessed the fiery demise of a film studio.

The host was too involved in mourning the loss of his high-paying gig to take any notice of the Bat approaching him. It wasn't until a gloved hand fell on his shoulder that he turned around.

"What happened here? I know the Riddler was involved." Batman said.

"What happened? Well, my job was just violently terminated. I also have a little hearing loss in my left ear. I hope it isn't permanent. Oh yes, and my ratings goldmine just collapsed. I've lost the perfect episode, unless a camera miraculously survived. That would figure, wouldn't it? I finally get a decent job, and everything blows up in my face." The host said.

"What do you mean 'the perfect episode'?" The Bat asked.

"You do know we film this show weeks in advance, right? Well, about two hours ago, we started normally. Our three contestants, Michael, James, and Lee, were all ready to start. Lee, she's the champion, made 15 thousand dollars in the last episode. Anyway, we got about three questions in, and a man in the audience stood up. He walked down to the stage. We don't have a whole lot in the way of security, I'm afraid. People don't usually have grudges against quiz shows. We were going to cut the cameras, and have the man escorted out. Then we realized who he was. He was dressed in this fancy green suit, a bowler hat, and he was carrying a cane. He was practically debonair. The question marks all over everything gave it away."

Wayne hadn't been expecting this. The Riddler had actually come to watch the show almost two hours ago, and then returned later in a violent rage to blow it up? What sense did that make? There had to be more details.

"What happened after you realized it was the Riddler?" Batman asked.

"We stayed calm and waited for him to make a move. I don't believe many people are particularly frightened by the Riddler. If the Joker had strolled in, let me just say I'd have been the first one out the door."

"And what was his move?"

"He wanted to play. James, the one contestant, everyone already knew he was third-place material. So the Riddler walked over to him, gave this little polite bow, and asked if he could take over. We told James he'd appear on the episode for the two minutes he played, gave him the videogame version of the show, and let the Riddler take his place. The audience was positively strumming with excitement." The host explained.

"Let me guess. He got every question right? Did you give him the grand prize trip to the Bahamas?" Batman asked.

The gray-haired host laughed. "Just the opposite! He got every single question wrong. Even stranger, his answers made no sense. According to the Riddler, the capitol of Taiwan is 'fun-bags' and 'Jesus Christ Superstar' is the president of Venezuela."

That did not sound like the Riddler in the least. Edward Nigma's brain probably produced enough energy to run several household appliances, should anyone ever wire an outlet into his head. He also took his recreation, be it crossword puzzles or old episodes of _Jeopardy_, too seriously. There was no way he would humiliate himself on a nation-wide game show.

"How was his demeanor while he was playing? Calm, excited, stupefied?" Batman asked.

"He looked totally content, if you asked me. Relaxed, twirling his cane during the commercial breaks, chatting up Lee, waving to the audience."

"But when he returned after the show, he was-"

"Livid. I haven't seen a man that angry since my brother's dog ate his tax rebate. The Riddler that barged in with a nasty case of rabies couldn't be any different from the one that entertained the audience so well." The host said.

"You said he attacked after production ended. Why was the audience still here?"

"I knew this episode had limitless potential, and so did the producer. He wanted to make it an hour-long special. We were going to get the audience members' take on the whole thing. You know, commentaries and all that. Only, I think we may get lawsuits, instead."

Alfred was not going to be pleased if his beloved show was shot down in a hail of lawsuits and angry former fans. If Batman could catch the Riddler, perhaps he could persuade Nigma to explain his lunacy and get the producers off the hook.

"One last question. You are entirely sure the man who played was the same man who blew up the studio?" Batman asked.

"Without a doubt. He was wearing the exact same coat, pants, shirt, hat, and mask. Only, there was one small difference. Perhaps two, I can't be sure, but certainly one."

"What were the differences?"

The host pulled off his tie and pointed to it. "The Riddler who replaced James wore a green tie with a large, single purple question mark. The Riddler who stormed in later wore a green tie with a number of smaller, black question marks. I can't swear before God on this, but I think the shoes were different, as well."

That meant what? The Riddler had been cheery, gone home to change his shoes and tie, and suddenly been visited by the murder fairy? That wasn't possible. Having the Joker running around in women's lingerie was one thing, but having the Riddler develop a case of bipolar disorder was something else entirely.

"Where's Batman? It's been half an hour now. I need more Tylenol and some food. And a blanket. It's getting chilly up here." Paul moaned.

John walked in a broad circle around the roof, occasionally looking down at the cars that drove by. Paul was right. It was starting to get chilly, and the Commissioner had a coat to keep him warm. The two Jehovah's Witnesses had nothing more than T-shirts, and Paul's ratty rag had holes in it. If Batman didn't decide to show soon, John was going to ask if he could go sleep in Gordon's office.

The door to the roof burst open. A rookie cop, practically bouncing out of his shoes, said, "Commissioner, sir, the Batman just showed up at that film studio explosion! He interviewed some old man, and then drove off in the Batmobile. Apparently, he's on a hunt for the Riddler. The responding officers said Batman told them the Riddler was responsible, and pissed off about something. So, I thought you'd like to be looped in, sir."

Before Commissioner Gordon could thank the young officer for running up all those flights of stairs, John and Paul went from slightly whiny to full-blown pains in the ass. They bemoaned their luck, cried about how the Riddler would probably end up killing them even though murder had never been Nigma's cup of tea, and finally ended up puling about how they never wanted tea ever again and had developed a hate for that particular expression.

The cop messenger watched the pitiful scene play out for a while, before growing disinterested. He had a pile of younger siblings, so he knew all about whining, crying, and tantrums. He didn't need to see the same behavior exhibited by two men while he was on the job.

"Commissioner, do you have any messages for the responding officers?" The cop asked.

"Cooperate with Batman, consider the Riddler armed and dangerous, and don't get any more squad cars destroyed if they can help it. Dent did enough damage this morning." Gordon said.

"You got it, sir." The rookie said. He scampered away, as happy as a puppy, to deliver his message.

"Yeah, and don't forget to mention the two Jehovah's Witnesses waiting patiently in the cold to be killed! I'm sure everyone wants to hear about us! We could use some company, and hot chocolate." John called after the cop.

Paul took off a shoe and threw it at John. It missed his head by inches and clattered over the edge of the building. Paul nearly burst into tears. He was sitting on the roof of police headquarters, waiting for a freak in a bat suit that probably wasn't even going to show up, and now he only had one shoe.

"Why did you throw your shoe off the roof, Paul?" John asked. He was peering down into the darkness, trying to ascertain if the shoe had landed on the sidewalk or bounced into the street. Because Killer Moth had knocked out the street lamp, it was too dark to make out anything on the ground.

"Because you can't shut up. I don't need every cop in Gotham to know how badly we suck." Paul replied.

"Come on, we don't suck. We've got God on our side. He won't allow us to suck." John replied.

"God on our side, and a horde of villains after our butts. And now my shoe is gone! If I have to run away in a hurry, I'm going to be lopsided. If my injuries weren't bad enough, now I'm going to get frostbite on my toes, too." Paul said.

"It actually has to be below freezing for you to get frostbite. I don't have a thermometer handy, but it can't be any colder than about 45 degrees. You're far from the danger zone." Commissioner Gordon said. He knew the Dark Knight wasn't neglecting them because he was off drinking or partying, but he was beginning to wish Batman would just appear to take these two off his hands. Even for Jehovah's Witnesses, these two were especially annoying.

"Even if I can't get frostbite, I'll still get a cold or something. Why did I throw my shoe? Oh, what if it's getting run over right now? I think I'm going to go and look for it. John, you keep watch. If any suspicious characters try to ambush me, let me know." Paul said.

Gordon rolled his eyes. Here he was, a trained cop and a damned good one at that, and he was being totally overlooked. Asides from being pests, these two probably weren't geniuses, either.

Paul, leaning visibly to one side thanks to his now uneven feet, hobbled through the door. Commissioner Gordon threw up his hands. "Fine, I'll go, too. Besides, that dim bulb hasn't got a flashlight. The only way he'll find that shoe is if he trips over it."

John didn't want to be left alone on the roof, but he figured he'd be safer a few stories above ground. Besides, if Batman showed up and everyone was gone, off hunting around in the dark for a missing shoe, he'd probably be cross about it. He might even punch John and Paul when they reunited, whether or not they got the footwear. John didn't want this crappy day to end with the city's overworked, caped hero beating him into the ground.

A minute or two later, John saw the beam of Gordon's flashlight slash the murk below. Paul was momentarily outlined in the light, before the Commissioner waved the flashlight into the street. No matter how hard John squinted, he couldn't make out anything remotely shoe-shaped.

"What if it fell into that storm drain and Killer Croc ate it?" Paul asked.

"Then you're never getting it back. I don't think the grate is wide enough for a shoe, though." Gordon replied.

"But I only have one other pair of shoes. I have to find it." Paul said.

"Then stop worrying about Killer Croc and _look_. Go poke around by those cars. Maybe it landed underneath one of them." Gordon said, directing Paul with his flashlight's beam.

Paul stooped down and peered under a Jeep while the Commissioner shined his flashlight under it. "Let's see. An empty soda bottle, chewed gum, oil slick, and no shoe. What about over by that Chevy?"

The Chevy yielded a half-smoked cigarette and nothing else. Paul doubted if his shoe would have bounced farther than the next car, a dilapidated van. If it wasn't hiding there, he'd have to assume it was laying in the street somewhere. Traffic was light, but he didn't want to risk running around like a squirrel, practically begging to be sent to meet his maker.

The flashlight illuminated the underside of the van. There, huddled beside the front tire, was Paul's shoe.

"Yes, there it is!"

"Then reach down there and get it. Your friend's probably getting lonely on the roof all by himself." Gordon said.

John had been getting lonely, but now something peculiar had drawn his interest. From his vantage point, he could make out, several blocks away, a car traveling at manic speed. He didn't see the flashing lights or hear sirens, which would have identified it as a cop car. It had to be a civilian who apparently didn't know or didn't care that he was barreling straight for the police hub.

"Stupid shoe." Paul muttered. His shoe was just out of reach. If he wanted to get it, he'd have to lie down on the ground. The sidewalk was cold, rough, and littered with used gum and pigeon droppings. He really didn't want to have to meet Batman with gum and bird poop all over him.

That car was definitely coming closer. John squinted, wishing his glasses weren't such an old prescription. He couldn't be sure, thanks to his failing eyesight, but it looked like another car was following the speeder and gaining fast. What was going on, an illegal drag race? If so, the participants had chosen the wrong part of town for their dangerous sport.

Finally, John was able to get a clear view of the car. As it roared past streetlamps and lighted building fronts, he was able to make out its color. It was bright green, and for one terrible second he was sure it belonged to the Joker. Then he spotted the large black question mark that had been painted on the roof. It had to be the Riddler's getaway vehicle. Without even seeing the car that was in pursuit, John was willing to bet, despite his religious intolerance of gambling, that Batman was on the villain's tail.

"Commissioner! Batman's coming this way. You might want to get out of the street." John called down.

"Yuck. Why can't people spit out their gum in a trash can or just swallow it? Nasty, nasty, stupid pigeons." Paul muttered.

Gordon heard John's voice, but only made out a few of the words. He looked up, cupped his hands to serve as a megaphone and yelled back up, "What about Batman and the street?"

"Batman's chasing the Riddler this way! You might want to get out of the street!" John shouted.

The car speed around the corner, tires squealing and sending up great clouds of smoke. Paul emerged from beneath the van triumphantly holding his shoe. The little bugger thought it could get away; it was wrong!

As though the street was a NASCAR track, the Riddler gunned his engine, accelerating dangerously. Gordon grabbed Paul and yanked him back onto the sidewalk, as far as possible from the Riddler's careening death-mobile.

Seconds after the Riddler, Batman roared onto the scene. In a desperate attempt to escape, the green car drove up onto the sidewalk. Unfortunately, just because a street light was out didn't mean its pole disappeared, too. Thanks to Killer Moth and his freaky obsession with things that glowed, the Riddler's expensive ride was totaled.

The car crashed into the lamppost, crushing its front end and snapping the pole like a toothpick. The racket of the crash shook police headquarters. Officer Mendez stuck his head out through the hole that used to be his window.

"What in the hell is going on here? Do I need to come down there and kick someone's ass? I still got that hooker report, and I'm not afraid to use it!" He shouted into the night.

"Mendez, go home!" Gordon replied.

Edward Nigma was smart enough to wear his seatbelt. The belt almost certainly saved his life, and the deployed airbag saved his face from being smashed. Unfortunately, there was no safety feature available to prevent severe whiplash, or to keep his leg, jammed against the gas pedal until the very second of impact, from being twisted in ways it wasn't designed to move.

The Riddler pushed open the car door, which opened with a terrible shriek of metal on metal. The crash must have warped the frame, because the door would open only half way and no further. Nigma managed to get his left leg out the door and onto the sidewalk. When he tried to shift the rest of his body out of the mangled car, he promptly collapsed in a clumsy heap. There was no way his right leg was going to support him, and he couldn't exactly out-hobble the Batman with only one functioning leg.

The same altruistic, and possibly stupid, compassion that drove Paul to prevent Two-Face from murdering the paramedic forced him to leave safety and dash across the street to the wreck. Gordon watched the Witness go and then sighed. If he wanted to be taken hostage or shot, that was his choice.

"I really don't think you ought to move, Riddler. You were just in a high speed collision with a lamppost. You should wait for an ambulance." Paul said.

"Ambulance is written backwards."

"What?"

"On an ambulance, it's written backwards so when motorists see it in their rearview mirrors, it appears correctly." The Riddler explained.

"Oh. I never noticed that, and I've seen a lot of ambulances lately." Paul said.

"You're too unobservant to be a cop. Who are you?" The Riddler asked.

Paul normally didn't disgorge information to people, especially not to people in masks who had just come tumbling out of wrecked cars. The Riddler, however, was pretty pathetic at the moment. It seemed rude not to make polite conversation with him.

"I'm Paul, and my friend John is that spot on the roof that won't stop waving and jumping up and down like he's in a mosh pit. We're not cops, you're right. We're Jehovah's Witnesses." Paul said.

The Riddler burst out laughing, as though Paul had just said he was a Ghost Buster or a proctologist. Paul wondered if, airbag or not, the villain hadn't whacked his head off something.

"Then maybe you can help me. What does the Bible say about doppelgangers who ruin a man's hard won reputation?" The Riddler asked.

"I don't think the word 'doppelganger' is anywhere in the Bible, and I've read it quite a few times. But I think the proper thing to do would be to forgive them. I mean, how badly could they have wronged you, right?" Paul asked.

The Riddler grabbed fistfuls of Paul's T-shirt and pulled himself into a sitting position. "How badly could they have wronged me? So badly that I couldn't think up a single riddle, and had to settle for swearing! So badly that I will spend the rest of my life regarded as a villain on par with Boris and Natasha! So badly that I might as well just tie a steak to my neck, jump in the river, and wait for Killer Croc to put me out of my misery!"

"You don't want to be doing that, trust me. Killer Croc is _bad_." Paul said.

"How would you know, Jehovah's Witness?" The Riddler asked.

"I, uh, bashed out some of his teeth with a tire iron. And then my friend filed a police report against him." Paul explained.

"_What_?" Batman and the Riddler asked simultaneously.

"Maybe I should get John down here. He really should tell his side of the story. And, you know, get a chance to defend himself." Paul said nervously.

Everyone looked up toward the roof. John abruptly stopped hopping around like a strung-out rabbit. He sheepishly withdrew from sight.

"I'll get him." Batman said. "Stand clear." He took his grappling gun from his utility belt and aimed it at the roof. A second later, the Dark Knight ascended up the side of police headquarters.

"Now that the Big, Bad Bat is gone, I have a riddle for you. What's the difference between God and a unicorn?" The Riddler asked.

"Isn't that more of a joke?"

"Shut up and play along." The Riddler hissed. Despite his bum leg and the way only half his mask was still properly in place, Paul decided not to antagonize him.

"I don't know, uh, damn, I hate puzzles." Paul said.

"No one builds temples dedicated to unicorns."

Paul forced a smile that was every bit as genuine as a prosthetic limb. "Oh, that's pretty funny."

"You're lying through your teeth. What about this one, then? I am called in moments of passion and moments of despair. Millions beseech me, yet I am not there. What am I?"

"I know this one! It's the President!"

The Riddler rolled his eyes. "No. I am God."

"I don't think I like your riddles."

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There will be more of the Riddler in the next chapter, for anyone who thinks he deserves more time.


	13. Batman

Like a zombie or a horror movie franchise revived solely for the purpose of making schlock and a quick buck, _Knock, Knock_ rises from the grave! For all the fans who never gave up hope and the people who recently reviewed it, here it is again! The hiatus is over, everyone's back at work, and I proudly present the final segment of this lengthy bastard.

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Batman was a lot scarier in person. It was easy to crack jokes about a man who ran around dressed like a flying rat, until that flying rat was standing in front of you and you came to realize just how well-muscled and foreboding he was. John was now faced with that predicament.

"Wow. I'm meeting Batman." John said.

"Yes, and I'm meeting a man with an interesting story to tell. Your friend's waiting; let's go." Batman said.

"Sure, okay. I'll take the stairs and meet you down there." John said.

"No, you're coming with me. Over the edge."

John emitted a long, pitiful shriek that echoed from one end of Gotham to the other. Batman had just grabbed him and _leapt off the roof_! Every survival instinct howled with vigor, and John clutched desperately at Batman. This was suicide, this was crazy, this was stupid, there was a reason man invented stairs!

Instead of free-falling, the descent quickly became controlled. John continued to howl and strangle Batman with a deathly tight hug. By the time the hero and the Jehovah's Witness were safely back on the ground, Batman was sure he'd suffered some hearing loss.

The Riddler took one look at John and burst out laughing. "Another riddle. What falls from the sky and screams like a cougar thrown into a wood chipper? You."

"That was crap." Paul muttered.

Batman had to pry John off him. John finally slid into a shaking mass on the ground and whimpered. He looked as though he had just had another run-in with the red-eyed monkeys the Scarecrow's poison forced him to hallucinate.

"John, are you all right?" Paul asked.

"No, Paul, I'm not. I was forced to jump off the roof of a police station. I have lost control of my extremities, and I am afraid Batman is going to tear my head off and eat it. Will you ask him to stop glaring at me?" John said.

"Oh, he isn't glaring. That's the only expression he's capable of producing. I deduce that you two will be spending a good deal of time with Batman in the future, so I suggest you get used to it." The Riddler said.

"Nigma, when I need your opinion, I'll ask for it. Shut up until then." Batman growled.

Smirking as though he was in possession of some secret knowledge Batman would be begging for soon enough, the Riddler closed his mouth. The quiz-loving villain continued to watch John and Paul with great interest. Their story was bound to be a fascinating tale, and Nigma had a front-row seat.

"Now that he's quiet, I want both of you to talk. Start from the beginning, and make it fast." Batman said.

John and Paul both bit their lips. They could start at the beginning easily enough, but making it quick wasn't going to be easy. It was quite difficult to explain how you had accidentally stumbled upon the most infamous of Gotham's citizens, and had survived both physically and mentally intact, at least for the most part.

"All right, it all started with the Joker and Harley Quinn. We were handing out literature in a poorer neighborhood because people there tend to be receptive. We rang the doorbell, and Quinn answered it. The Joker invited us inside, then he made fun of us, smashed our car with a hammer, and left us to walk home." John said.

Paul picked up the story. "A few days later, we ran into the Scarecrow. It was utterly by accident. We were proselytizing in an apartment, and we heard someone screaming in rage. We went to investigate, and it's the Scarecrow! He made me read Stephen King and John read _Darwin_. Can you imagine? Then he gassed us and we started seeing things. The landlord threw us out like garbage and then we had to go to the hospital because John was seeing flying monkeys."

"They weren't flying, they were humanoid and disgusting. One looked like the Vice President." John corrected.

"Of course they were." The Riddler quipped.

"As a matter of fact, they were. I can vouch for it. They were so bad I fainted. In a manly way, of course."

Not even Commissioner Gordon could completely hide his grin. It was physically impossible to faint in a manly way. It was like trying to run naked down the street in a modest fashion.

"Paul took me to the hospital, and while we were sitting in the ER, Two-Face was dragged in by some paramedics. They thought he was a burn victim or something. He knocked the heck out of them, and was going to shoot this one guy for being an idiot. Paul stopped him."

"How? I don't mean to offend, but you refused to part ways with a shoe. I didn't get the impression that you were up to such a challenge." The Commissioner said.

"I talked him out of it. And then he told me something that made me want to retreat inside myself and never come out. He predicted, I swear to God, that we were going to meet more villains. He said we were God's special messengers to the rogues. Is Two-Face in anyway clairvoyant?"

"No." Batman, Gordon, and the Riddler answered simultaneously.

"Lucky guess then." Paul said.

"When Two-Face left, John was finally able to get the antidote to the poison and the monkeys went away for good. We went home, and the next day we went shopping." Paul continued.

"I wanted to buy a flower for my grandmother. And guess who the florist was. Pamela Isley, and I think I love her. She bashed Paul over the head with a ceramic pot, and then, to make it up to us, she gave us peace lilies. I still have mine; I haven't forgotten to water it even once." John said.

Paul nearly gagged. "John, for the last time, let it go. She kills people with plants. You spread the word of God. They're incompatible careers."

Batman would have warned John about the dangers of falling for Poison Ivy, but he felt time was short. He was fully aware of the incredibly graphic broadcast the Joker and Quinn had sent out last night. He needed to figure out why these two men were in such danger, and then find a way to keep them from being mauled by a rabid blonde clown.

"I think I get the gist of your story. Skip to the part when you offended Harley Quinn so badly." Batman said.

"We were on the bus, because my rental car crashed into a fire hydrant. It was Killer Croc's fault." John said.

Killer Croc? Batman was tempted to hear the unabridged version of that account. Denying his curiosity, he signaled for John to continue.

"A passenger on the bus kept changing forms: once he was a hooker, another time he was a handsome guy with black hair. This shape-changing finally made me so crazy I got out of my seat and attacked the guy. He transformed into Clayface, and I was sure he was going to kick the crap out of me. I sweet-talked him out of it, and then gave him something to occupy his time." John said.

"What kind of something?" Batman asked.

"The kind that comes back to bite you."

"What exactly did you tell him to do?"

John swallowed, his throat almost unwilling to work. "I, uh, suggested he knock the other villains down a notch. I may have suggested he turn into the Joker wearing a pink, frilly outfit and parade around town like that."

Commissioner Gordon sighed and rubbed his forehead, as though he had suddenly developed an acute migraine. Nigma smirked, probably because he knew first-hand just how dangerous a scorned rogue could be. Batman mercifully didn't fly at him and begin to knock his internal organs out, as John originally feared, though the hero's perpetual scowl became more pronounced.

"The Joker in a pink dress made the news, Harley saw the broadcast, and now she's out for your heads." Gordon said.

"I would really like to keep my head where it is. Batman, do you have any way of helping us? I realize just how stupid John was, and just how much extra work he created for you, but he didn't mean to do it." Paul said.

Extra work for him, for the police, for innocent citizens walking the streets, in short, for anyone living in Gotham. Still, Batman couldn't really fault the Witness. He had been terrified for his life, faced with a morphing clay monster. His mouth had spit out the first thought that came to his frightened brain. It had been a very stupid thought upon reflection, but at the time it had saved his bacon.

"I am not going to leave you at the mercy of criminals." Batman said.

"Because they have no mercy, and Harley Quinn would literally rip you limb from limb should she get her hands on." Nigma clarified.

"Thank you." Batman growled.

The Riddler reached for his bowler hat, only to find it had become dislodged in the crash. Unable to tip a literal hat at Batman, he mimed the motion, instead. Batman's scowl became so deep it threatened to actually cut his face and draw blood.

"So you have a plan? Great, I was expecting this to be difficult." John said.

The look on Batman's face suggested he had just walked into a brick wall. John's joy faded instantly.

"You don't have a plan, do you?"

"It isn't as though I ever thought I'd need to save two Jehovah's Witnesses from a long list of villains out to kill them. I don't go home every morning and dream of the most implausible situations I will ever encounter." Batman snapped.

"No, he goes home and hangs upside down in the attic until the sun sets." The Riddler said.

Batman ignored the Riddler's jabs. He had to think up a suitable solution on the fly, but so far he was coming up blank. John and Paul were in mortal danger. There was no kinder way to put it; they would almost certainly die in some particularly heinous manner if they were abandoned to their own devices. The fact that they had survived thus far was evidence someone was watching their backs, but a guardian angel had to get tired eventually.

"You're not safe anywhere in Gotham. The Joker has a network to gather information for him. Eventually, he'll find you." Batman said.

"And if he doesn't, I'm sure fate will hurl you at someone else equally capable of doing to job." The Riddler added.

Paul glared at the Riddler. His patience for the smart-talking, question-mark bedecked villain was beginning to wear thin. If he was forced to stand by the Riddler for much longer, he might just feel the need to remove a hubcap from the wrecked vehicle and clobber the insane questioner with it.

"He's right, damn it. No matter where we go or what we do, there's some lunatic there. We go to the hospital, Two-Face shows up. We try to get our drivers licenses back, we run into the Mad Hatter. We go to the police for protection, Killer Moth flies into the window. Gotham City is one big, sprawling death trap." John moaned.

"What if we put them in protective custody, the Witness Protection Program, something like that? Officer Mendez has some hideous fake beards he's been dying to glue on someone." Gordon said.

"Nothing against your men, Gordon, but once they know something, the Joker knows it five minutes later. These two need complete secrecy." Batman said.

This was a puzzle nobody seemed able to solve. Except the Riddler. He had figured out how to save John and Paul only seconds after hearing the details of their entertaining plight. He just wasn't ready to divulge that information yet. He was willing to bet there was a 'get out of Arkham free' pass with his name on it if he could play the game right.

"What if we just never leave our apartments? We could have people pass us food through the mail slot, and our fellow Witnesses could hold prayer meetings outside the door. It wouldn't be so bad." John said.

"That's not exactly realistic. I don't know about your apartment, John, but you know mine is small and crappy. I couldn't stand being cooped up in there for more than a week or two. I'd go insane, sew myself some skin-tight costume, and start holding up banks." Paul replied.

Brains were wracked, thought-processes were flogged into action, gears grinded and nothing clicked. John had several ideas akin to hiding in his apartment—hiding in a fallout shelter, hiding in a tree, hiding under a rock like a terrorist or a bug—but they all had the same flaw: they were stupid. Paul could only think of changing his name to something Islamic and starting a whole new life, but knew he would one day screw that up by giving out his original name. Besides, he didn't speak Arabic, didn't know one thing about Islam, and he hated the thought of what wearing a turban would do to his hair.

"Well, I think I'll just come out and say it. We're dead." John said.

"You're not dead." Batman said.

"I'm going to go home, eat all the chocolate I own, order a pizza, eat that, order some Chinese food, eat that, get my Bible, eat, I mean read that, and then I'm going to watch bad sitcoms until I fall asleep."

"That proposal makes a sort of sense." The Riddler said. "At least you'll be brain dead come morning from overexposure to the swill that passes as entertainment. You won't be aware of your own death should someone break into your home and bludgeon you with a blunt instrument."

Ignoring the fact the Riddler had just been in a high-speed crash and had suffered injuries, Paul kicked him. The Riddler's response was first to glare, and then to begin cycling through his obscenely long collection of riddles and word games. Paul, whose brain was not programmed to solve puzzles, began to howl in pain as his mind was overloaded.

"What is at the end of time, yet present at the beginning of eternity?"

"My brain!"

"I have seven heads, four eyes, five mouths, and pink hair. What am I?"

"Someone, please, shut him up!"

"He has one, a person has two, a citizen has three and a human being has four. What am I?"

"I'm sorry I kicked you. Please, stop with the riddles. Please."

Gordon stepped in with a pair of handcuffs ready. "Enough, Nigma, or I'll stick you in a holding cell."

"Commissioner, I wouldn't do that if you have any concern for my new friends' wellbeing." The Riddler said.

"How is torturing him with riddles helping anyone's wellbeing? How is listening to him cry helping _my_ wellbeing? How is any of this going to save them?" Gordon asked.

"That's a very simple riddle, actually, and I know the answer." The Riddler said.

Batman was on him in an instant. He lifted the Riddler up off the ground and brought his leering, scowling face inches from the villain's. "Spit it out."

"Absolutely not. As I see it, I am depriving my fellow rogues of revenge they rightly deserve. After all, what takes years of toil to build, yet only seconds to destroy? A reputation." Nigma replied.

Batman gave the Riddler a good shake, as though that would knock the answer loose. Nigma kept his smug grin in place, despite the rattling. He had something golden, and he wasn't going to give it away for nothing.

"What I meant to say is that I won't simply give you the answer. You may be able to barter it from me, however."

"I've got twenty bucks and a picture of my nephews. You might as well keep the wallet, too. It's worth ten dollars or so." John offered.

Nigma snorted in disbelief. "Your life is worth twenty dollars and a worn faux-leather wallet? I wouldn't sell you a used stereo for that price."

"We're not paying you, Nigma. John, put your wallet away." Gordon said.

Paul, no fan of the Riddler, offered his own solution. "Beat it out of him."

Batman was curious about the Riddler's asking price. He doubted if he could merely threaten information from Nigma; the man was far too clever to divulge anything over a little shaking and scowling. Batman was unwilling to follow Paul's advice. Nigma had been injured in the car crash, and Batman was a dark hero, not some sadistic fruitcake who abused people until they cracked from the pain.

"What do you want for the answer?" Batman asked.

"Freedom. You let me go and forget about the whole blowing up a studio incident. Now that I know who was behind the embarrassing episode, I've regained control." Nigma said.

"No." Batman replied instantly.

"All right. Take me to Arkham, and scrape those two of the sidewalk when you get back." The Riddler said flippantly.

"I don't want to be scraped off the sidewalk." John said.

"That's a shame, then, isn't it? I'm giving you an excellent deal. It isn't as though I'm demanding a virgin sacrifice or anything of monetary worth. Simply the ability to walk, eh, limp out of here untouched and unbothered."

Paul was making explicit punching gestures with his fists. Somewhere, in light of recent events, Paul had picked up a worrying violent streak. John would have to watch his friend in the coming days, always assuming they lived that long.

Batman and the Commissioner decided they needed a private huddle to discuss the Riddler's proposal. While they were off weighing pros and cons, John and Paul were left standing next to the villain. With his babysitters gone, Nigma decided to commence with the riddling. He took dark enjoyment from Paul's misery.

"Perhaps one of you can solve this riddle. It could be called the oldest in the book. What has four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?"

To Paul's surprise, John answered, "A human being. Four legs as a baby when he crawls around, two as an adult, and three as an old man with a cane. Ha!"

"Congratulations. I see one of you isn't a hopeless case. It would be a shame to see your corpse decorating the front page of the _Gotham Times_." Nigma said.

John looked to Batman and the Commissioner. "If either of you care, I vote you let the Riddler go. I mean, he'll do something evil in the near future, and you can always catch him then, right?"

"I did let all those people leave the studio before I blew it up. I could have murdered them, but I didn't." The Riddler pointed out.

"For anyone else, I wouldn't even consider it. But Nigma probably won't go down to the end of the block and kill the first taxi driver he sees." Gordon said.

"I'll just hobble home to my lair, find something to immobilize my leg with, and not be a bother to anyone."

"All right, you have a deal. What's the answer to our problem?" Batman asked.

"You're going to kick yourselves when you hear it. To save them from the villains of Gotham, simply remove them from the city. Put them on a bus, boat, or train, and send them somewhere far, far away. Once they are out of harm's way, track down Clayface and reveal his fraud. I would advise keeping those two out of the confession." The Riddler said.

It was now John and Paul's turn to huddle. "It's not a bad idea, but where does he expect us to go?"

John remembered something that had sounded useless and just plain weird at the time. That paramedic they kept running into had said that, faced with the Witnesses' tribulations, he'd tape himself to Superman's ass for protection. John wouldn't go so far as to break out the duct tape, but he wouldn't turn down a trip to Metropolis.

"I have a destination, Paul. What do you think of Metropolis? It's cleaner than Gotham, there are no clown-themed villains, and it's got Superman."

"That's brilliant." Paul replied.

"Let's share out brainstorm with Batman."

Batman was more than happy with the plan. Metropolis was large enough for John and Paul to totally disappear among its citizens, it was safer than Gotham, and, once they were in the city, they could be Superman's problem. Batman had a monumental mess to clean up, and he could do it much better if he didn't have to worry he'd find confetti-sized chunks of Jehovah's Witnesses littering the street. He was so grateful to get rid of them, he was even willing to drive them to Metropolis himself. At least then he'd know nothing killed them on the way.

"Nigma, don't let me catch you out tonight. You two, come with me." Batman said.

"I suppose I'll go explain what I can to my officers. And call someone to tow that wreck off the sidewalk." Gordon said.

Batman led John and Paul to the Batmobile. They stared at the vehicle with pure awe. It looked like something that had come from the future, from a time when rockets and cars mated and produced offspring.

"How much did this thing cost?" Paul asked.

"How fast does it go?" John asked.

"It cost more and goes faster than you really want to know. Get it, and don't touch anything." Batman said.

John and Paul ogled the Batmobile for a few more seconds before finally climbing in. Once inside, they found the huge assortment of buttons, levers, and things that glowed almost overpowering. They had to fight back the primitive urges that demanded they start pawing everything in sight.

"It's like the control panel of the space shuttle." John said.

"Yes, except the space shuttle doesn't have a button that launches missiles or a net." Batman said.

"It has _missiles_? Can we see them?" John asked.

"No. Now, tell me where you live. I can't send you into hiding with only clothes on your back. Especially not when the clothes look like that." Batman said.

Some time later, the Batmobile was filled with peace lilies, plastic shopping bags hastily stuffed with clothes, and a week's supply of food. Paul had tried to find room for his remaining pamphlets and booklets, but decided having something to eat was more important than having something to read.

After they had been blasting toward Metropolis for twenty minutes of awkward silence, Paul dared to ask the question he and John had always wanted to know.

"Batman, have you been saved?"

"Several times, by various brave individuals."

"I meant more in the spiritual sense."

"I know, and I'm not answering that."

Paul shifted nervously. "I was just curious."

John patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Paul. We'll save it for Superman."

THE END!

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I may post an epilogue, but for all intents and purposes, it is done. Hallelujah!

And since you may be wondering the answers to the riddles, here you go.

At the end of time and beginning of eternity? The letter E.

I have seven heads, four eyes, five mouths, and pink hair. What am I? A Liar.

He has one, a person has two, a citizen has three and a human being has four? Syllables.

Thanks for reading and reviewing. Thanks to all the folks who loved it, and all the folks who got offended. Have a delightful holiday season, live long and prosper, long days and pleasant nights.

Night Monkey, over and out.


End file.
